


The Alchemist And The Emperor

by The_Librarian



Series: Life After Equivalence [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aerugo, Alchemy, Amestris, Brotherhood, Consequences, F/M, Flame Alchemy, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Ishbal | Ishval, M/M, Mad Science, Mystery, Post-Canon, Romance, Xing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 86,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Librarian/pseuds/The_Librarian
Summary: A fallen empire. A fabled stone. A price paid in blood. A promised day of reckoning.Ever since the Elric brothers returned from the other side of the Gate, someone has been watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Now, as family history catches up with Al and the shadows come for General Mustang, it's up to Ed to prevent a disaster four hundred years in the making.The conclusion to Life After Equivalence. Ed thus language, canon-typical violence.[On hiatus until the New Year]
Relationships: Alphonse Elric/Original Character(s), Dante/Van Hohenheim, Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Series: Life After Equivalence [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/188150
Comments: 108
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue - Long, Long Ago

**Author's Note:**

> \- So, you know how big events in comics and TV shows are often prefaced with something like 'it's all been leading to this!!!' in the promos and so forth? Well, it's all been leading to this.  
> \- The Alchemist and the Emperor is a story that I've had in mind for the conclusion of this follow up to Conqueror of Shambala since I first finished Death of Truth, umptytwiddly years ago when I was an undergraduate. The story didn't always look like the execution is going to. Quite a lot of my ideas have been ejected along the way. But ultimately, this is what I've been building to throughout every part of Life After Equivalence.  
> \- The upshot of that is, you probably don't want to start with the final part of the series. In fact, you should probably go back to the very first story and begin there. Apologies for past-me's oft-clunky prose and the two or three continuity snarls that I've not yet worked up the energy to fix.  
> \- The other upshot is that this story, right here? It's going to be looooong. Like, it's already half the length of The Lives of Clockwork Men and I'm not even halfway through Act I of III. Between the copious flashbacks my brain has decided Must Go In and the fact that I'm going to have about five different plot threads on the go at any one time, it's a monster.  
> \- I am well aware that this might mean that I get bogged down and have to break off for a while, most likely because I've buried myself in my own continuity. However! Based on my total inability to handle this properly in the past, I have implemented the following: I shall be posting five chapters, one a week, starting from next week. That shall then be followed by an intermission piece, after which I shall break if required. Rinse, repeat. I have things planned solidly to the end of Act I, which is currently going to be 20 chapters long, so that should give me enough headway not to end up with a(nother) year-long break.  
> \- Did I mention that I am writing this thing ferociously quickly because I'm stuck at home during a pandemic in a country with a government that thought letting the vulnerable die off was the correct first response to the crisis? Hi.  
> \- Anyway, as always, all credit for FMA goes to Hiromu Arakawa, with additionally endless thanks to the people behind the 2003 anime adaptation, not to mention those who brought FMA: Brotherhood to the screen as well. Yep, FMA:B is relevant to this one, guys (but maybe not in the way you might expect).  
> \- Now – pop on 'Dante's Theme' from the FMA 2003 soundtrack, settle yourself comfortably with a mug of something, and let me tell you a tale . . .

_They say the Sage of the West arrived on a great day of feasting, when the walls of the Jewel of Xing were festooned with the banners of that most triumphant army, and the people thronged and sang of the unity the Emperor and his lords had restored to the civilised lands._

_Into the crowds of dancers and jugglers there came traders from the Western Wastes, and in their great caravan rode a man robed all in white. His hair was gold like the sun and in his eyes was some of that celestial fire. At his throat he wore a stone of the purest red and by his side travelled a woman veiled in shimmering blue._

_Among such festival, the miracles this philosopher performed might have seemed commonplace but for their astounding scope and his own foreign provenance. He spoke well and properly, and it was soon known in all the quarters that a man of learning had come from far off lands to consult with those wise men who populated this most serene of empires._

_Word of his arrival reached even to the utmost heights of city and the Emperor Himself – may His name be spoken in reverence – called upon this itinerant sage to attend the court and speak of the mysteries that he had carried to Xing . . ._

* * *

“So tell me, Master Philosopher.” Lord Chang addressed the visitor across a table bearing all the fruits and delicacies of the land. “What do you know of our own great arts?”

“Of Xingease alchemy . . . ?” the man from the west mused, cup held carelessly in one hand, “But little, I fear. I know of it, of course, and that its practitioners pursue their goals very differently to those of my own school. Something to do with perfecting the self rather than the surrounding matter, I believe.”

Chang smiled thinly, as was his way. “Your knowledge is gratifying, no matter how small it may be.”

The alchemist returned the smile pleasantly, teeth showing behind his beard. “I have sought all knowledge, however small, in my pursuit of understanding. I have sat with those who worship the great _Ishvala_ , maker of all things, and learnt the circles they inscribe on their flesh to summon his blessings. I have talked with nobles of the Courts of Britannia, where they consider alchemy the work of benevolent demons. It would be my honour to learn another branch of the great art. If,” he added, turning to he who sat at the head of the table, “His Divine Majesty will indulge my curiosity.”

Beaming with much enthusiasm, the Emperor clapped his hands. “But of course! Master Hong!” He beckoned a diminutive old man with long grey whiskers. “Master Hong holds authority in Our court on matters alchemical, Master Philosopher. He will tell you all you could wish!”

“By Your Divine Majesty's will.” The little man's voice was as dry as his appearance and he blinked at the visitor with milky eyes. “What may I share with you?”

The alchemist lowered his cup. “Well . . . I have heard that you make immortality your highest prize. Is that so?”

“Certainly. We seek the perfection of the elixir so that the Most High may join the Immortals.”

“That is why We eat from a golden plate,” the Emperor said with a wave at the one laid before him.

“As Your Divine Majesty says,” Hong rasped, “In times past it was the duty of the alchemist to teach the Emperor how to prepare potions that would extend Their lives unto the end of ages.”

“Ah.” The visitor nodded. “That, I have heard of. Although since I also read that such mixtures were based on mercury and lead, it must have been a somewhat counterproductive exercise.”

Hong's eyes narrowed and he drew breath through flared nostrils. “It is true that there were misguided lines of thought among my noble predecessors. No doubt the same can be said of those who walked before you, Master Philosopher. But in time greater truths become known. Now we perfect the true Golden Elixir within ourselves.”

For the first time, something other than calm attendance came into the alchemist's posture. He leaned forward, interest sparking in his eyes. “ _Within_ yourselves? How does that work, exactly?”

“By pursuing certain rituals, one may cultivate and complete one's essence, energy and spirit, thereby returning oneself to the perfect state of emptiness from which all is derived. The true alchemist seeks the reversal of the process that brought unity from nothing and duality from unity and multiplicity from duality. The restoration of the Golden Elixir carried within us from the moment of our birth is the means by which this can be achieved.”

“And these rituals? What do they consist of?”

“The circulation of energy within the self. Mental and physical exercises, together with the ingestion of certain herbs and compounds. The combining of the cosmic with the individual. Where our noble predecessors used stoves, we use our bodies.”

“Interesting.” Laying his cup aside, the alchemist rested his chin on the backs of his hands. “Where I come from, alchemy on the human body is regarded as a great taboo. Yet it sounds as if you have made it the core of your studies.”

“I am sure that there is much that your culture finds objectionable about ours, Master Philosopher,” Chang murmured with a half-bow, “Much also that we might find objectionable in yours.”

“Oh, don't mistake my meaning – I meant no criticism. Many lesser men have resorted to branding taboo what they cannot understand. It is the duty of men of greater insight to rise beyond their short-sightedness.” He glanced across at Hong. “So you seek to perfect your body? Render it truly incorruptible?”

“This body –” Hong gestured feebly at himself. “– this form will always be corruptible. The alchemist seeks the perfected spiritual body, one that will outlast the death of the physical multiplicity. There is much that can be done with elixirs and herbal concoctions to maintain this form for many years but that is not what ultimately matters.”

“Ah . . .” A trace of disappointment lingered on the alchemist's face. “Yes. I see.”

Hong noticed his expression. “I have heard that western alchemists share the misassumptions of our noble predecessors and seek their answers in material means. Might I inquire of the philosophies that guide _your_ work?”

The alchemist ducked his head modestly. “I fear that I have not yet given up on the perfection of matter. For example, as much as I admire the man who can preserve his soul beyond the grave, I would have a greater admiration for the man who could dance a jig with his great-granddaughter on the same legs with which he had been born. Besides.” He plucked his empty plate from the table. “Caring for one's insides is all very well but the world rolls on even when we shut our eyes.” In a flash of red light, the plate became a handsomely plumed heron, rendered in exquisite detail.

The Emperor laughed in delight and clapped his hands again. “The Master Philosopher has you there, Hong. Many years you and I have trained our bodies in preparation for immortality – you far more than I – yet in all that time, I have never once seen you transform my enemies to salt nor bring beauty out of raw stone.”

Hong's forehead touched the low table as he bent in prostration to his ruler. “In great humility, Divine Majesty, neither lies along the path I walk.”

“Do such things lie along your path, Master Philosopher?” Chang inquired, face a study in idle curiosity.

Placing the heron before him, the alchemist rolled his shoulders in a smooth shrug. “I see no enemies at this table. As to the other . . .” His hand crept to the golden chain at his throat. “Well. There is great beauty to be found in a stone.”


	2. Science Fiction Double Feature

“Gang way!”

In a whir of wheels, pedals and pumping legs, Sewell hurtled through the streets of Tilnoune like his arse was on fire. Townsfolk scattered from his path, gasping or cursing as they narrowly escaped being run down. He had no breath to waste on apologies, no time to be steering around every ninny who got in the way – !

“Move!”

Heaving on the handle-bars, he swung into Dolphin Lane, raced past a row of narrow houses and plunged through the gap between the pub and the apothecary. He just about managed the tight left turn, barking his elbow on the wall before exploding out on to Florence Street. With a despairing cry, he flew across the road, twisted in a vain attempt to stop, and shot past the bookshop at a horizontal skid.

The fair-haired man leaning against the shopfront watched the burly workman untangle himself from his bicycle without a word. He was dressed in neat, unremarkable clothes and his peculiarly golden eyes narrowed suspiciously as Sewell staggered towards him.

“You the alchemist?” Sewell asked urgently, pointing back the way he had come, “Been an accident at the mill – people trapped – need help right away! Heard there was an alchemist in town, looking for books – s'at you?”

Pressing himself against the wall as if hoping to slip through and escape, the man shook his head vigorously. “I'm not –” He was cut off by the door to bookshop opening.

“I'm an alchemist,” said the slender, dark-eyed woman who stood there, “How can I help?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The crash had demolished a supporting wall and brought the roof down. Half a dozen workers were trapped inside, injured but alive. Between the logs shed from the truck and the precarious situation of what remained of the mill, it was going to be impossible to reach them safely.

By normal means, anyway.

Noah picked her way carefully towards the wreckage. She was still getting her breath back after racing up from the town, but there was no time to waste. She brushed hair out of her eyes and tried to guess what the safest point to enact the transmutation would be. At least she was mostly working with wood or stone, nothing complicated. The truck could stay where it was while she moved the rest up to the sides. It should be a simple task to reinforce the structure with the material she needed to get out of the way. The main problem would be ensuring the reaction spread far enough and at a consistent rate. Getting things lop-sided might cause the very collapse she was there to prevent.

Footsteps came up behind her, turning into a familiar presence at her elbow.

Only that was not true, was it? The figure beside her was not familiar, not really. He was certainly not the Edward Elric she knew. Perhaps an idle observer might think them brothers, even confused him for Alphonse. Surely none would have guessed the truth.

Edward March looked at her, concern taking the place of the dour expression she had grown accustomed to. “Do you need any of this moved out of the way before you start?”

“I don't want to risk it all coming down. Better I do it right away.”

“You can really move all this? I mean . . .” He pushed his hand into his hair in a way that was so like Ed that, for a second, it threw her off her calculations. “I'm sure you can, I'm just still getting used to how powerful this alchemy stuff is. Which is a bit silly since I have actually seen it crack the universe in half.”

“And now you'll get to see it move some logs as well. Stand back.”

Smoothing down her skirts, Noah took one more step forward and planted her feet in a firm, sold stance. She inhaled, drawing in air thick with wood-dust and the smell of a dry forest. In her mind, she formed a network of formulae and chemical structures, some learnt in books, others pulled from memories not her own. She pressed her hands together and let energy flow from within her, circling through her arms in a tingling electric rush.

Then, in one fluid motion, she thrust her hands into the ground.

Blue light lanced through the wreckage, lifting the wood and turning the earth liquid. The fallen logs and the walls of the mill parted in two great waves, sweeping aside as if they were the ocean before the prow of a great ship. In seconds the transmutation solidified. A clear channel now led into the collapsed mill and the fallen roof had been folded back like the lid on a can.

Huddled, dirt-covered figures coughed and blinked in the daylight, flinching as the last jolts of energy flashed to nothingness. Noah breathed out.

As she stood up, the workers gathered behind her started to stream past, rushing to see to the injured. The big man who had come to the bookshop paused to shake his head in astonishment. “Amazin'! Incredible! Thank you, miss! Thank you!” He hurried on.

Noah dusted off her hands. She eyed her work critically, seeing how she might have done it better. But it had done the job. Her heart felt light, counting the lives she had just saved.

“It's incredible,” Edward said, voice pitched for her alone, “To just clap you hands and . . .” He looked down, flexing his fingers. “It must be nice to have that knack.”

“You could learn,” she told him, gently repeating what she had said the last time he voiced that sentiment, “There are plenty of people who would teach you.”

“And few I could learn from without raising awkward questions.”

“It still might help you feel less afraid of what you can do.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “You're assuming that's a good idea.”

“Only as much as you're assuming it isn't.”

He said nothing to that, just rubbed his left shoulder and looked towards the mill. “I should go help. Might as well do something constructive with all this strength for once.”

“Aren't you worried about _that_ raising awkward questions?”

“Of course. But there are people who need help.”

She smiled at his back, when he was far enough away that he would not see her do so.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was quite something to come to a town simply to buy a couple of books and to leave a local hero. Just like Ed, going somewhere for disinterested reasons, getting caught up in things beyond his control, then suddenly finding himself being applauded for actions taken in the heat of the moment.

Noah decided that she liked it. Sewell and his comrades insisted on toasting her and Edward for helping out. They also offered to pay board and lodging or else supplies for the onward journey and even though she politely refused their kindness, it was there to be turned down and that felt good. She could have done without being crowded and pressed to mugs of sour ale, or told how surprising it was that a skilled alchemist should be so female and so beautiful. But lives had been saved and she even got to tell most of Tilnoune that this was the kind of thing the League of Independent Alchemists did: help people in all the ways alchemy could.

She was sure Lady Penny would be delighted with her for spreading that message.

Somewhere along the way, she lost track of Edward. His reaction to people slapping him on the back and pumping his hand was to edge rapidly out of the crowd. When she eventually got out as well, she found him back at the bookshop, flipping through a historical text while the shopkeeper dozed quietly at the cash-desk.

He did not look up when Noah came in. “Please tell me you didn't promise we'd go to any parties in our honour.”

“I don't think they feel like celebrating that much. Those men might be alive, but they're still hurt. Some of them badly.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry.”

“It's all right. I'm the last person who'll judge you for wanting some space to yourself.”

Closing the book and returning it to the shelf, he jammed his hands into his pockets. “So what's the plan?”

“The same as before. Unless you don't think there's time to walk back to the station today?”

“I'm sure we'll manage. It's only a few miles of country road.”

“And the weather's still fine.”

A wry smile was better than nothing. “Yes, but I was trying to avoid saying that and turning into the stereotype.”

“Well even if you do, I don't think they have England in this world so you'll still be unique.”

“How reassuring.”

Noah grinned and went to wake up the bookseller so that they could finish their business.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It had all happened because the League wanted Al to go to Ishbal.

As Noah understood it, a group of Ishbalan scholars had reached out asking to meet with people of learning from Amestris. Partly this came from an idealistic hope that an exchange of ideas would contribute to a long-lasting peace between the two nations. Mostly, it was practical. With the destruction of their lands, the Ishbalans lost almost all physical records of their history and sciences. While they carried much with them into exile, the sad truth was that a lot of that knowledge died with its bearers. The gaps left behind were not ones the survivors could quickly fill on their own.

Appreciating the importance of recovering farming practices, building techniques, medicine and all the rest, the government of Ishbal gave wary blessing for a meeting to be held in one of their newly rebuilt cities. The scholars then in turn wrote to sympathetic doctors and engineers, inviting them to do their part in making amends for the sins of the past.

They also wrote to the League, explaining that while alchemy remained a sore subject, the tight bonds between Amestrian science and its alchemic traditions meant there was no way for an exchange of knowledge to be effective without the involvement of alchemists. There would be no transmutation past the border. Respect would be shown for the culture and religion of the Ishbalan people. And there would be absolutely no involvement from any State Alchemists, current or former. But if the League could abide by these conditions, its representatives would be welcome to join the conference.

The League's leadership, newly elected and keener than ever to distance themselves from the alchemy of the Military, agreed readily. And they asked Alphonse Elric to join the deputation. He was the ideal candidate. His research was focused on medicine and alchemic history, subjects favourable to the conditions imposed. He was widely travelled and had spent time with Ishbalans before. And it didn't hurt that he was known as a generally caring and heroic person.

Al protested, pointing out none of that was going to endear him to Ishbal in the way they seemed to imagine. But it was clear from the start that he was going to agree. The chance to learn about another culture's science was just too tempting and Noah suspected he wanted to see how the reconstruction was going first-hand.

The only problem was, what was she going to do in the meantime?

As an apprentice, she would hardly be much use to the Ishbalans and Al would have no time to keep her lessons going while he was there. Besides, the invitation was expressly for a _small_ number of alchemists. No more than was strictly necessary for the conference to proceed. She would have to stay behind.

Ordinarily, that would have meant continuing to train on her own at the League's mansion house. She might even have taken a few lessons with Lady Handley-Paige, who had offered more than once to introduce her to botanical alchemy. However, the timing was against it. The government had announced a 'Festival of the New Amestris' and the LIA was to be a key part of it, showcasing how alchemy was now being turned to constructive use. Every qualified alchemist in the League wanted to get involved, leaving Noah without a teacher and, since the mansion was quickly overrun with half-complete projects, without any place to study.

Under the circumstances, it was impossible to resist the suggestion that she take a break and help with the ongoing task of hunting down obscure texts for the League's library. If her skills as an alchemist were incomplete, they were still sufficient to follow instructions on collecting old tomes and identify any glaring frauds. In that she actually had an advantage most apprentices did not: memories from the Elric brothers' obsessive research and their finely honed ability to spot fakes.

The only snag was that she would be travelling alone. Ed was not his own master and could not drop everything to go on a holiday with her. Winry, likewise, had a duty to her patients. And the few friendships Noah had begun with other League members were tentative and not at a place where she felt comfortable with the idea of taking long journeys with them.

Then, to everyone's surprise, Edward offered to go with her.

He'd kept himself to himself since getting out of hospital. General Mustang had set him up with a small apartment, somewhere private and safe. Ed, Al, Winry and Noah all tried to bring him into their lives but it was difficult and the effort was not entirely welcomed. Calmer though he may have been with most of the red stones out of his system, Edward was still trying to adjust to a body that was more homunculus than human and a life severed from everything that had come before.

His blunt explanation for the offer was that he was bored and fed up with being pestered by well-meaning Elrics. There was discussion – much of it heated – as to whether Edward accompanying Noah might put her in danger if someone came after him. Yet with a year having gone by with no attempt to harm him and no sign of the people who'd fed him the stones, even Ed was forced to admit that keeping him in Central served little purpose.

So here they were. Two people from another world, walking along a country lane with a suitcase full of alchemy books.

Edward carried the case. He'd not quite insisted, but since he could easily lift it one-handed and drape it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all, Noah didn't object.

They had not talked much, aside from the necessary conversations between fellow travellers or brief exchanges as events prompted them. She did not mind and certainly had no plans to press him into speaking. What did they have to talk about, anyway? They came from the same world but for all they had in common, they might as well have come from different ones. A Romani girl who'd spent her life in countries where she was the wrong kind of person, with abilities that left her alone even among family, rescued from slavery by a man who once held magic in his hands. And an English boy raised in comfort, meant for higher learning until war and that same, miraculous man left him an undead half-thing. Where did the two of them even begin?

Noah looked sideways in what was supposed to be a quick glance but became a turn as she discovered Edward was no longer there. He had stopped under a tree that spread its branches over the road like a great, green hand. They'd been climbing for a while, though the hill rose so gently that she had barely noticed. Now a patchwork of fields spread out behind them, a quilt of farms and meadows.

Edward contemplated it all with a look that hovered between appraising and critical. The case was still swung over his shoulder. His other hand was shoved into his pocket. Rocked back on to his heels slightly, the pose looked both rigid and fragile. As if gravity or the wind were going to tip him out of it at any moment.

“It's a nice view,” Noah said, prepared to say no more if he did not respond.

He made a small noise, as if only half-hearing her words. Then he seemed to recollect himself and nodded. “It is. I was just . . . I was thinking it reminded me of where I grew up. But it doesn't, really. I mean, it's not much like home except it's farmland and trees. The light's different. The landscape's . . . well, it's not actually much like Gloucestershire. Just makes me think about it.”

She hesitated for a second. “Did you grow up in the countryside?”

“No! Well. Not exactly. My mum had relatives out in the country. We'd visit sometimes. I suppose looking at all this put me in mind of that. Farms must be . . . alike, no matter which world you're in. Only so many ways to grow potatoes.”

“It reminds me of France.”

“I've never been – oh.” Edward lowered the suitcase, let it crunch against the dry dirt. “I have, haven't I? Just wasn't in my right mind.”

“It's nice. This,” she clarified when he looked at her, “The country here. I like the light. It feels brighter than it was back . . . there.”

“Is that really the case or is that just because you prefer being here?”

“Both, maybe.” Noah stretched out her arms, feeling the push of her jacket sleeves, the faint stirring of the breeze, the warmth of the afternoon sun. “I'm alive here in a way I never was before. I think sometimes that's just because I don't have to shy away from everyone's thoughts now. But it's more than that. Here . . . I can be someone I never would have been back there. It's not just losing my ability or becoming an alchemist. It's having people believe I can be whatever I want. It's being able to make my own choices.”

“Freedom?”

“If you like.”

“Even if you have to lie about where you come from, _Miss Noah Roma_? Does it . . . doesn't it hurt to have to shrug off the past as if it . . . as if it's so much left luggage?”

He sounded more confused than accusing. She responded in kind, battening down the part of her that bristled at the suggestion she should feel differently.

“I hold on to the parts of my past that I want to. Everything else is mine to leave behind. Perhaps here, I'm without heritage or history and perhaps sometimes I wish I wasn't. But that was my choice. If that leaves 'Noah Roma' just some empty words on my papers, then I will live with that.”

“Ah yes. What a wonderful world, where we need papers to justify our existence.”

“At least here, I'm allowed to have them.”

“Hm.” His eyes were so much like Ed's, the same intensity, the same spark. Only there was something else there, something Noah did not really have the words for. Sometimes it seemed those eyes were the wrong shape. Maybe that was just her imagination, the knowledge of what he was making her see it written across his face. Yet still . . .

Edward turned away. “I understand. I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be unpleasant. It's just . . . hard. Not just the . . . powers. Just being here. Not being there. Knowing I can't go home.” His shoulders rose and fell. “I used to read Verne and Wells sometimes when I was younger. Imagined myself at the bottom of the sea or on other planets, seeing things no one had ever seen before. I don't remember imagining how lonely it might be.”

“Lonely,” Noah said, “But not alone.”

He laughed, suddenly and more  _ innocently _ than she would have ever expected. “What a pair we are. Lost travellers in another world and our exciting adventure is restocking a library!”

“Are you going to tell me that isn't a worthwhile thing to do?”

Scooping up the suitcase again, he swung around so they could continue on their way. “Of course not. But I think Mr Wells would have made it more exciting somehow. Added a chase or a giant creature or –”

“A terrible accident?”

“Good point. Perhaps we wouldn't disgrace the scientific romances after all.”

If Edward's cheer was a little forced and the banter a way of escaping more serious thoughts, it still broke some of the ice between them. A small step, to be sure, but one Noah was happy to take with him.

Perhaps, with enough small steps, they would cross the gulf that lay between them. Noah hoped so. And in the meantime, there were trains to be caught and books to be collected and a whole world to explore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As noted waaaay back in The Long Walk Home, London!Edward is originally from Cirencester, Gloucestershire.  
> \- I'm now 10 completed chapters in, so should be posting regularly for a couple of months!  
> \- And since I have a habit of collecting music that makes me think about my stories, let's get some use out of that and say this chapter's song is 'Live out Loud' by Thea Gilmore.


	3. Diplomacy, If You Please

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Russell reshuffled his notes like a card trick he'd forgotten how to finish. At first, Al assumed his fellow alchemist was simply looking for a misplaced page. But it seemed that no matter which piece of paper Russell pulled out, it wasn't the right one. Every so often, he would scrawl an extra few words in the margin or cross out an entire line, but that didn't seem to help either.

Al wondered if the next stage would be tearing the whole lot up and starting over again. Since there wasn't that much longer to go before they arrived, he decided to intervene before that happened.

“You don't have to be so nervous, you know.”

It took a few seconds for Russell to realise that someone was talking to him. He squinted across the aisle. “What did you say?”

“I said, you don't have to be nervous. We were invited and I'm sure they'll be very welcoming. Most of the Ishbalans I know are.”

“I'm not nervous,” he insisted, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, “I just want to be prepared for when we get there.”

“I don't think they'll expect you to give a lecture at the train station.”

“Well – no, obviously. But I still need to prepare. I don't want to get halfway through and realise I've missed an important bit of groundwork or – I don't know, find out I can't explain something without performing a transmutation.”

“You'll be fine,” Al assured him.

“What if I'm not? The last thing I want to do is offend them and –”

“I'm sure you won't.”

“But if I do . . .”

“You're not going to start another war, Russell. Honestly, you aren't. The first one wasn't really about Ishbalans rioting against alchemists in the first place, remember?”

“I guess . . .” He folded his arms and looked away, out through a train window that was busy bathing them in the light of a slow desert sunset.

Al watched him for a while. “You know, I remember you being a lot more confident when we first met.”

Russell snorted. “Sure. And that nearly got my baby brother killed.” He fidgeted about in his seat. “That was different anyway. All that stuff, it wasn't something other people were relying on me to do. Or . . .” For a minute, he struggled to articulate whatever it was he meant, then gave up and said, “I don't know what I'm even doing here.”

“You're an expert botanical alchemist. You're exactly the kind of person who should be here.”

Another snort. “Expert compared to what? Dr Boardman's got decades more experience. Tomlinson's work is far more in line with what the Ishbalans want. You're Alphonse Elric. What am I? A faker farm hick who knows how to grow lemon trees.”

“You're a specialist in the kind of farming techniques that Ishbal needs to become self-sustaining again. That's why the League asked you to come. And come on – it's been years since you last tried to pretend you were Ed.”

“Yeah. Everyone knows what he looks like now.”

“You don't  _ really _ think you shouldn't be here, do you?” Al pointed to Russell's hand, holding up the ring on his own to underline the point. “You made full membership of the League because of your research. Sure, they accept far more people than the State Alchemists ever did, but it's not everyone who gets in right away.”

“I know.” Russell fiddled with his ring, tracing the symbols on top. “And I know I'm a good alchemist. But I'm not a diplomat and I've never been out this far east and – I don't want to mess it all up.”

“Like I said, you won't. And if you need help, just let me know. It's not all on you.”

“That's . . . true. Thanks.” He shuffled the notes one last time and put them down. “I'll try and think about something else for . . . how much longer?”

“Err.” Al craned his neck to look at the clock at the other end of the carriage. “Forty minutes?”

“Right.” Russell chewed the end of his pencil. “Perhaps I should make a few more edits –”

“Or we could play some cards?” Fishing a pack out of his pocket, Al held it out for consideration. 

“Oh. Uh. Sure?”

Al grinned.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The train drew into Dahsan City just as Al had finished wiping Russell out for the fourth time in a row. Dusk was falling hard but there was still enough light to make out the details of the station. Simple wooden platforms to the sides of two railway tracks, a single bridge, then a high wall with a booking hall built into it, all built from the pale sandstone that Al knew from Liore and pictures of old Ishbal.

A few people unconnected to the conference got off first, moving quickly to the exit while porters rushed to unload the goods vans. That was the main point of a train like this. The passenger service was just a lucky by-product of the need to import supplies. Which made Al smile, thinking that he and the other scientists were on par with boxes of nails and bales of wool.

Dr Boardman cleared her throat. She'd been standing by the carriage door, waiting for them to finish pulling their luggage from the racks. Now she was wearing the expression of someone who knew they were expected to take charge but really didn't want to.

“Well,” she said, “We'd better get out there and see what's what.” She reached up to check her bob of red hair, then opened the door.

Three Ishbalans were waiting to greet them: a middle-aged woman in a plain grey dress and a yellow shawl, a young man wearing a simple tunic and baggy trousers, and a slightly older man with a shaved head, dressed in a robe and carrying a staff. Al recognised him immediately and had to suppress the urge to call out.

Dr Boardman offered a hand to the woman. “Hello! You must be Rufina. A pleasure to meet you in person.”

She broke into an enormous smile and seized Boardman's hand with both of hers. “And a pleasure to have you here! I'm so glad you agreed to come! I can't tell you how excited I am for the next few days. Really, this is an incredible opportunity.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course.” Looking startled, Dr Boardman began to introduce everyone piling off the train behind her. Smile only getting more wider, Rufina insisted on shaking hands with every single one of them.

“Ah, Mr Tringham, a botanist . . . and this of course is Alphonse Elric. I assume you know –”

“Who he is? Of course. I'm very happy to welcome you to Ishbal under pleasant circumstances.”

Rufina's grip felt as powerful as Armstrong's. Al returned it as best he could. “Thank you!”

Releasing him, she moved back to the other two. “You'll meet everyone else back at the hostel, but for now this is Felix, one of my students, and Amantius, my brother in scholarship.”

The two men bowed their heads, though where Amantius did so with a respectful lowering of his eyes, Felix did not look away from the Amestrians.

“We will conduct you through the city,” Amantius said in the same calm, measured tone that Al remembered, “Do you need any assistance with your luggage?”

They all said they were fine but Rufina insisted that Felix carry Dr Boardman's case anyway. She beckoned and led the way through the booking hall, down a ramp and out into Dahsan.

It was strange seeing Ishbalan architecture on the scale of a city. Al was ashamed of that thought almost before it was finished. After all, there  _ had _ been cities here, before Bradley sent Marta and her squad to start a war, before the State Alchemists were unleashed on people who had no hope of driving them back. But he had only ever known Ishbal after that war and so to him, this seemed like someone had taken that tiny village on the Liore border and magnified it a dozen times over.

The buildings were of the same square design, with narrow windows and flat roofs. But they were all built two or three storeys taller and their doorways were decorated with elaborately carved wood. Awnings that on the frontier were careworn and patched, here stretched over the pavement as bright, colourful canopies. The road, wide as any in Central, was split down the middle by a row of trees that raised great fans of leaves towards the sky. The effect was nice to look at and probably, like the canopies, helped dissipate the worst of the sun.

Which was good. Even with nightfall approaching, the heat was enough to make Al grateful to have gone back to keeping his hair short.

People thronged the street, moving with purpose or just strolling, carrying shopping bags or wheeling bicycles, talking in groups or staring off into the distance. The normal things people did on city streets. In fact, if Al had been forced to come up with a word to describe what he was seeing, 'normal' would have been a good one. He could only imagine how good it must feel to have that after years of being exiled and persecuted. To be able to just walk outside and go about your business in peace.

He got a twinge of the same nerves that plagued Russell. Being here, coming from where he did . . .

But Rufina was still smiling as she pointed out local landmarks and the passers-by, if they looked at the visitors at all, treated them to nothing worse than curious expressions and the occasional frown. So Al did his best to simply take in the scenery.

After a minute or so, he dropped back to join Amantius at the rear of the group. “It's good to see you again.”

The priest dipped his chin, a slighter version of his earlier bow. “And you. I trust you're well.”

“Yeah. I think so. You?”

“Certainly. This is a much easier place to live than the desert.”

“Are you no longer . . . keeping vigil?”

“Others have taken that burden. I am here to study at the temple and offer what aid I can to this new city.”

“And your brother? Is he here too?” Al tried not to sound like he was worried the other priest was going to jump out from nowhere and start shouting at him. Though now he definitely was.

“Delmar is still serving the villages near where we met. He prefers it out there.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“You two seemed close. It's a shame you're so far apart now.”

“We will see each other again. As you will those you care for.”

“So it's not a . . . permanent thing?”

“Ah – no. We go where we are needed. For now I am needed here. In time, I may be needed in the same place as Delmar. Or he will be needed here.” There was a glint in Amantius' eye that suggested that might be a joke at his brother's expense.

They turned the corner on to another, even wider street. A truck rumbled by, old but running well. Across the road, kids chased each other around the wooden pillars that held up a particularly wide awning.

“Uh, so . . .” Al ventured, “You're studying at the temple and . . . working with Dr Rufina?”

“I assume that seems strange to you?”

“Not strange, exactly. Are you here to make sure we all behave?”

That got him an incredulous look. “Of course. Amestrians believe we exist to police our people and force them to obey the will of an imaginary god.”

“That's not – all I meant was that it must be awkward for us being here and . . . uh.” He took a deep breath. “Would you mind explaining before I swallow my other foot?”

“Probably a good idea. You come from a country that long ago decided the affairs of God and mankind should be put in separate houses. Ishbal was never like that. While I may study our history and scripture, and Rufina may study the arts of stone and metal, we both seek to illuminate the work of God, so that His people may prosper.”

“Religion and science as two parts of the same whole?”

“If you like. Even calling them by different names obscures how our forefathers approached learning. Perhaps it was the same for yours too, once upon a time.”

“We're taught that letting religious concerns dictate over science led to suffering and persecution.”

“And are 'religious concerns' unique in that regard?”

A chill ran up Al's spine.  _ Lab Five. Science ruled by greed and conquest. _ “I see what you mean. You seek balance between different kinds of knowledge?”

“We accept that knowledge can mean many things. At least, that is how I read the scripture. You will doubtless find others who look at things more prescriptively. But for now, Ishbal needs cooperation more than it needs their voices.”

“Very practical.”

“The world teaches harsh lessons about when practicality is required.”

Up ahead, Rufina called out that it was not far now. Past the buildings in front of them, Al glimpsed a large dome that presumably belonged to the temple. Were they going to be staying or working  _ there? _ For all this talk of no separation of knowledge, that seemed like it would be a bit much.

“May I ask you a question?” Amantius said, interrupting before Al could start getting properly worried.

“Of course!”

“I wondered . . . have you heard much – over the border – of the Scarred Men?”

“You mean those people who . . . ?” Al dug through his memory of the past – two years? Had it really been that long? “Not much. A couple of reports that Ed talked about, maybe. I . . . honestly, I think most of the time the newspapers and so on just sort of . . . try and forget Ishbal's here.”

“Such is the way of sins.”

“Have they been a problem? The Scarred Men?”

“No more so than they were the last time you were here. They persist, as does the anger that drives them. The government does what it can to control them, stop them hurting the effort to rebuild.”

“It must be hard. To have to deal with that on top of everything else.”

“They are a product of 'everything else'. They must be faced and, hopefully, reclaimed from their anger.”

Al was not sure he would be so generous to people who had beaten him up. Which, he supposed, was why he wasn't a priest.

“I knew him,” he said after a moment, “Scar, I mean. The man who was called Scar.”

Amantius did not reply.

“Maybe knew isn't the right word. He tried to kill my brother. And he saved my life. I . . . was there with him at the end.” Not sure where exactly he was going with this, Al looked around again at the buildings and the people and the sky. “I think he would have loved this. To see everything rebuilt. I  _ know _ he wouldn't have wanted people hurting other Ishbalans in his name. That's the last thing . . . everything he did – he was trying to protect you all.”

“Hmm.” Amantius' eyes half-closed. “I believe that. I didn't know him, by any of his names. We shared a master, but he was lost before I was found. I have spoken to others who tell much the same story as you. That for all he went against our ways, he kept us in his heart. Or tried to.”

“Now you have to deal with people who didn't know him either, taking the wrong meaning from what he did.”

“Yes. Perhaps the same can be said of every life. Only Ishbala knows the truth of what we carry in our souls. The rest of us just have to make do with what we can glean from the outside.”

“And even if we want to set the record straight, we might not be able to do that right.”

“Indeed.”

“Here we are!” Rufina boomed, waving to gather them all together in front of a particularly impressive set of doors. They carried the image of a tree, heavy with fruit and surrounded by flowers.

“This is the hostel?” Al asked Amantius, staring up at the edifice.

“Yes. The second building completed in the city. A place where anyone is welcome and can find shelter.”

“That's a nice idea.”

“It is a strict tradition. One we have not been able to uphold for a very long time.”

“Oh. Of course. Um, is that like the staff? I just mean – meeting you and Delmar was the first time I ever saw Ishbalans carrying them, but it looks like they're meant to be, uh, symbolic?”

Amantius ran his fingers over the patterns inscribed along the length of wood. “Yes. It is an aid to prayer and a promise to others. Here is Ishbala, the means of reaching across gaps that divide us, of guarding against harm, of leading the way through the wilderness. Even during the height of the war, such staves were never used in violence. But afterwards, no Ishbalan was permitted to carry a weapon. Or anything that could be used as such.”

“Ah.” Which was blindingly obvious, if Al had thought about it for two seconds. He fished about for a response that wouldn't just be putting his foot back in his mouth.

Luckily, that was the point Rufina shouted at them to stop dawdling on the steps.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The room was plain to the point of austerity. Just white plaster walls, a tiled floor, a bed and a cupboard for clothes. A single shuttered window gave a view of the street and a curtain in the corner sheltered a sink and washstand. The only decoration was a piece of patterned cloth secured from the ceiling on all four corners so that it dipped down in the middle. Geometric shapes chased across the fabric, meaninglessly as far as Al could tell, though he suspected he'd end up reading secret messages in them all the same.

He tested the bed. It was low to the ground but comfortable. At least sleeplessness wouldn't be something he had to worry about – not from the heat, either: inside the building was far cooler than out. Which was good because the loose shirt and trousers he was wearing were about as far as he could go to dress for hot weather without stripping to his underwear, and attending seminars like that should be left for anxiety dreams.

Oh, for that to be the worst thing in his anxiety dreams.

Anyway, the point was, Al decided he liked the hostel. Building for practical comfort over ostentation was the right idea in his book. He hoped everyone else thought the same way and he wouldn't have to put up with complaints from others more used to plush hotels. At least he knew Russell would be fine with it. The Tringhams had always been the kind of alchemists who spent all their money on supplies and treated accommodation as something to be scrounged wherever it could be found.

Finishing his unpacking, he shoved his suitcase behind the cupboard and then went down to the entrance hall. The ground floor was mainly communal rooms, for eating or just gathering in. He took a step into one of these and was immediately pulled into a round of introductions with some of Rufina's students.

“Not neatly divided by age, I'm afraid!” She gesturing at the mix of teenagers and grown adults. “We have to take everyone who is willing to learn.”

Only a few of them offered their hands. The rest bowed their heads or just smiled from across the room. Three were already in deep discussion with one of the engineers, seated on cushions in the corner, notebooks open on the floor between them.

“They had a bit of a head-start,” Rufina confided to Al, “Mr Alberney has been working with us for some time, helping us adapt some metal-working techniques to the climate.”

“How many students do you have? Or – well, I'm afraid I don't really know how you're organised here. Is it formal, like a university?”

“We have formality, but there are so few of us to teach that we have to do a bit of everything.”

“No division between knowledge?”

“So you were talking seriously to Brother Amantius! But yes. Sharing knowledge with all who need it is the only way we can get anywhere. You might think two decades carrying the art of glass-blowing is a bit light-weight compared to the entire scripture of Ishbala or a library of medicine herbs, but it saves time when our chemists know how to make their own equipment.”

“You're a glass-blower?” Al asked, surprised.

“Oh, I'm a dabbler with all sorts of materials. Glass was just the one I was entrusted with.” She tapped the side of her head. “Kept the skills alive as best I could, taught them when I had the chance.”

“And now you're helping people with all sorts of skills to pass them on?”

“Something like that. I like seeing how things join up and turns out, I'm not half bad at getting people to talk to one another –”

“ _ Domna _ ! Excuse me –  _ domna _ ?”

Rufina rounded on the interruption. “How many times – I am not ' _ domna _ ' to anybody! Makes me sound like I should be a doddering old biddy with a walking stick and dozens of grand-kids and let me tell you, I have hefted too many hods of bricks in my life for either.”

The boy who'd made this faux pas swayed under her glare and tugged abashedly at his striped stole. “S-sorry,  _ dom _ – I mean, sorry  _ docea _ . I just – I was wondering if you knew where Alphonse Elric was? I wanted to tell him hello before I had to go check on those experiments.”

“Uh. Hello.”

He blinked at Al in confusion, red eyes narrowing and then going wide with realisation. “Oh, I'm so stupid! I didn't recognise you at all! I was still expecting –” He pantomimed far more height, breadth and spikes than the person before him actually had.

Al's brain suddenly kicked into gear. “ _ Rick _ ? Is that you?!”

The grin was exactly the same, even if the kid giving it was six years taller and wider than the last time they'd met. “That's me! I'm kinda amazed you remember me!”

“Hey, I don't forget people that easily. How are you? You're studying here?”

“Yep! Chemistry – learning from  _ docea _ Rufina and  _ docan _ Cato. It's great! But I'll have to tell you about it later – there's this thing we were doing and I've really got to go make sure it's not gone wrong.”

“Oh – maybe we can catch up tomorrow?”

“Absolutely! And with Leo too – I'm sure he'll want see you. You can meet his fiance!”

“His – s-sure, of course, I'd love to.”

“Great! See you later –  _ docea _ , may I . . . ?”

“Go!” Rufina ordered, “And don't let Cato catch you running in the workshops!”

Al watched Rick dash out of the room, not entirely sure the past minute had really happened. Rufina's elbow bumped against his ribs.

“Everything all right there?”

He shook his head disbelievingly. “The last time I saw that kid, he was this tiny thing crying in a junk-yard. Now he's a happy teenager. Studying chemistry. And his big brother's  _ engaged _ ?”

“Quite a kick in the teeth, eh?”

“It's amazing. Everything you're doing here, the city . . .”

“Almost like it's all coming together, isn't it? Ishbal, rising from her tomb.”

“I'm really happy for you,” he told her earnestly, “For all of you. Although . . . I think seeing Rick all grown-up is making me feel old.”

“Oh no you don't. I'm the only one allowed to feel old around here! Come on. Let me introduce you to our local herb-botherers. You can talk medicine over the evening meal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Final score on Al's pony tail – The Death of Truth: grown back after a year running around Europe with no barber; The Long Walk Home: still long, dyed for disguise; The Dog Has His Day: grown out some more, still shorter than Ed's, back to normal colour; The Way We Are Now: still long, Mika really liked it; The Lives of Clockwork Men: entirely at the reader's discretion because the author forgot he was supposed to have one; The Alchemist and the Emperor: gone.  
> \- I continue to use Latinate names for Ishbalan characters.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'No Barriers' by the Levellers.


	4. Normal For Unusual People

Ed wasn’t sure why it felt different this time. Not when tramping around the country doing Mustang's dirty work while pursuing another agenda had been the definition of 'business as usual' for a so much of his life. And true, the dirty work was not so dirty any more and the other agenda wasn't some secret mission to break all the laws of alchemy but –

Well, maybe that was it. Now he'd dropped the evil puppet-master routine, Mustang's orders were almost . . . reasonable. It was hard to object to being sent out to fix up towns, deal with corrupt officials, handle alchemical accidents, or any of the other stuff the one-eyed bastard used to trick him into. Sometimes, he was actually in danger of _enjoying_ his job, Military or not.

Ed clung on hard to his annoyance at occasionally being reduced to a glorified postman, carrying letters of authority to civilian alchemists or other qualified persons as selected by the great and mighty destroyer of the State Alchemy Programme. He needed _something_ , otherwise he and Mustang might end up becoming friends or something awful like that.

As for the big mission for which Ed's day-to-day duties were cover? Finding out how a bunch of old-order die-hards uncovered the secret of a dangerous alchemic accelerator was hardly as urgent or desperate as getting Al's body back or trying to find a way home. Sure, that whole mess last year ended in a lot of dead bodies and Central had come very close to going up in flames but in the end . . . the Helmont watch was gone. The Bradleyists failed. Discovering how they'd known about the watch in the first place was just tidying up loose ends.

Ed couldn't say it drove him in the way the quest for the Philosopher's Stone once had.

Although that could just have been making excuses for not getting anywhere. Every lead he'd followed was a complete dead-end. Not as in, 'might have been something but then turned out to be nothing after a series of whacky hi-jinx,' but as in, 'this just isn't even a clue.' There was part of him that expected to have the whole thing cleared up in a matter of weeks. But the weeks had turned to months and the case just sat there like a gnawing toothache.

He wished he had someone to complain to about it all. Brief phone-calls with Mustang were no substitute for haranguing him in person, any more than writing letters to Winry was a substitute for being with her. In the old days, he'd just have moaned to Al then got on with his work. Or they'd have played cards until he forgot to be annoyed. But Al was away across the country, having his own adventures, living his own life. Everything Ed had always wanted for him.

Perhaps that was the biggest difference of all. Ed  _was_ happy for his brother. How could he be anything else?

But he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss the company.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“ _Brigadier General Mustang's office?”_

“Hi Fuery. It's me.”

“ _Oh, hi!”_ Ed could hear the master-sergeant's surprise. _“You're back in Central already?”_

“Yeah, thought I should let you know.” He toyed with the phone cord, trying to ignore the background ruckus of milling passengers and clanging carriages. “Managed to get an earlier train. Can you put me through the Magnificent Matchstick? Figure if I give him my report now, I can take the evening off.”

“ _Oh, right – uh, yes. Um. He's not here.”_

Ed rolled his eyes. “Figures the one time he's wanted, he wouldn't be. When's he going to be back?”

“ _I . . . I don't know.”_ Fuery sounded unusually evasive. Presumably that meant Mustang was engaged in some underhanded plot or covert mission that couldn't be discussed on an open line. Or else he'd taken an impromptu holiday and everyone was trying to cover for him.

Ed mentally ran through the list of obvious questions, none of which would do anything other than put Fuery in an uncomfortable position. “Can I give you my report then, so you can pass it on?”

“ _I . . . guess? Sure!”_

“I didn't find a damn thing.”

“ _That's easy to remember at least! I'm sorry though. Nothing useful at all?”_

“Nothing. Which means . . .” Ed pulled a face. “Can I get into the prison without the General sending a note ahead?”

“ _I, err . . . I think so. I mean, you've got the authority to request to visit a prisoner.”_

“Can you sort that for me? The sooner I can . . . well, I should probably make sure there aren't any leads left before I give up.”

“ _Of course! I'll get paperwork over to First Prison as soon as I can.”_

“Thanks, Furey. Sorry for the extra work.”

“ _It's no problem, Ed. Are you going home now?”_

“That's the plan.”

“ _But you'll come into headquarters as normal tomorrow?”_

Ed wondered if Fuery was afraid he'd get the blame if Ed went AWOL. “Sure. Mustang gonna be there?”

“ _I doubt it. Sorry.”_

“Oh, I'm not complaining. See you tomorrow.”

Ed replaced the receiver and dug into his pockets for more change. He had his hand poised to dial when he remembered what day it was. Getting back early meant that he'd arrived when Winry would be up at the hospital, doing on-ward work with potential clients. He could ring the hospital and ask them to pass on a message –

No. He'd make it a surprise. She'd like that. Or, he was pretty sure she would. And he could pick something good up for dinner on the way back home. Like a regular person would for their partner. Yes. That would be . . . normal.

And that wouldn't that be a nice change of pace?

  
  


* * *

  
  


One of the benefits of doing this roving work for Mustang was that he didn't have to wear his uniform all the time. He still wished he'd made it a condition of signing on again to not wear it  _ever_ , but this was the next best thing. It meant that walking around the Central markets, even with suitcase in hand, he didn't attract any undue attention. He was just some guy, buying fish and vegetables and generally going about his life. Not Major Elric, officer in the State Military. Not the Fullmetal Alchemist, hero of the people. Just . . . himself.

It was a bit like being back in Munich. Only with the knowledge that everyone important to him was safe and alive and within easy reach. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

What he liked less was coming into the little courtyard in front of Winrys clinic and finding someone sitting next to the door, apparently asleep under a battered straw hat.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

From beneath the brim, Jon 'Doddie' Dodds squinted at him blearily. “Oh. It's you. Um. I mean, you know, hi. I was looking for Rockbell.”

“She's not here.”

“Yep, already found that out.” The skinny mechanic waved at the other auto-mail shops that gave on to the courtyard. “One of your neighbours said she'd be back this evening. I thought I'd wait.”

“Out here?”

“Couldn't get inside, could I?”

Ed held up his key.

The workshop smelled the same as always: metal and oil, antiseptic and sweat. Winry had left the benches clear, except for a couple of lower legs placed together like a pair of boots. Ed dumped his suitcase by the door to the back room and reached for the light-switch.

In the sudden illumination, Doddie looked . . . really fucking tired, actually. Even Ed couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the guy.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing to one of the stools, “Tell me why you're here.”

“Didn't have anywhere else to go.” Doddie sank on to the seat with a sigh of relief. He dropped his bag and started massaging his neck. “Meant to phone ahead but turns out I left without any spending money.”

“Left where? Rush Valley?” Ed flipped open the ledger Winry kept under the counter, checking that she wasn't going to be working late.

“Yeah. Packed in a hurry, only got myself to blame.”

Warning bells started to go off in Ed's head, cutting through his general annoyance at seeing this red-haired streak of gloom again. “What happened? Are Paninya and Dominic OK?”

“What? Yeah, of course they are. Why would you – oh. Oh, right. No, everything's OK in the Valley, nothing you need to panic over. No catastrophes or earthquakes or anything.”

“So . . . you just decided to drop by for a visit?”

“Not . . . exactly.”

“What, exactly?”

“I . . . I need somewhere to hide. From my parents.”

Ed pressed a hand over his face. “You'd better come upstairs.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


There was meat in the cold box and bread in the tin, so Ed made sandwiches and pulled out some of the bottles of beer they kept around for visitors. “If you didn't have money for the phone,” he explained with begrudging patience to a startled Doddie , “I'm guessing you didn't have it for food either.”

“No. Thanks.”

“So. Your parents. Art gallery in East City, right?”

Doddie choked and goggled at him.

Ed rolled his eyes. “Winry told me.”

“R-right. Of course. Yeah, dad's a curator. Mum's not much of anything.”

“Not into auto-mail?”

“Nope. That sort of came out of nowhere to them. They were never, you know, _bad_ about it. Just didn't get it.”

“So this isn't about them trying to make you follow the family business?”

“Hah! You do _not_ want me in an art gallery, trust me. No, this is . . .” Doddie squirmed, trying to cover his discomfort with food, then a sip of beer. Ed was about to tell him to get on with it when he blurted, “They want me to get married.”

Ed blinked.

“There's this girl. Actually, she's my dad's boss's daughter. Really rich. Banking. My dad's boss, not his daughter. Bought his way into the upper-crust. You know? You were in East a while, right?”

“I never really met the, uh, rich people.”

“Lucky you. The point is, they're not old money, so dear old mum and dad got it into their heads that I have a chance of marrying into the family.”

“Right . . .”

“It's not as out of nowhere as it sounds! We kind of grew up together. I guess we got along OK. She's nice enough. A snob, but not a bad one.”

“But you never . . . ?” The gesture Ed made was imprecise, mostly because he wasn't sure what he was trying to imply. Holding hands? Messing around in hay-lofts? Heartfelt promises of undying devotion? Whatever it was kids did when they were ordinary and trying out being in love.

“No! Well. A couple of, you know, kisses. But it never meant anything. Only now it could be my folks' ticket into 'proper' society and they won't stop bugging me about it! They've been practically demanding I come back to East so I can, you know, _woo_ her!”

“That is a pretty shit thing to do.”

“Yes it is! I've been trying to put them off, but they just _won't stop_!”

“So you decided to run away somewhere they couldn't get to you?”

“Pretty much. It was Garfiel's idea. Well, Paninya's. Garfiel said I should get away for a bit and Paninya said Rockbell might be able to put me up. Next thing I know, I'm on a north-bound train.”

“Seems drastic. Why didn't you just tell your mom and dad to stop trying to set you up?”

Doddie looked at Ed as if he was from another planet. “Are you kidding? You ever try arguing your parents out . . . of . . . oh. Right. Sorry.”

Ed applied himself studiously to his sandwich. “Don't worry about it.”

“No, really, I'm sorry. I used to do the same thing with Rockbell. Keep forgetting not everyone . . . it's just . . . have you ever tried arguing with someone who has such a set idea of what you're like and knows how to press just enough of your buttons that you can't string together a sensible response to save your life?”

He thought back to his arguments with Al – and Winry, come to that. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Well . . . _that_. I'm an adult, there's nothing to make me do what they want, but I just can't get them to shut up about it! It was driving me crazy!”

“Sucks to be you.”

With a long, drawn out groan, Doddie put his head in his hands. “I know, I know,” he mumbled, “This isn't the end of the world or some huge emergency and you're the great alchemist who saves the universe every Tuesday –”

“Hey,” Ed protested, “I get why you'd be upset about this. I'm sure Winry won't mind you staying for a bit. There's a sofa.”

He pointed in the general direction of said sofa. Doddie's eyes followed the gesture, then focused on the beer in front of him. “It won't be long, I promise. I hope it won't. Garfiel said he'd open my mail and let me know when it looked like they'd dropped all this.”

Shrugging again, Ed licked crumbs from his fingers. “The girl got a name?”

“Eloise. She's . . . argh!” Doddie tore his remaining sandwich in half. “Once upon a time, she's exactly the kind of girl I thought I was going to fall in love with. You know?”

In all honesty, Ed didn't. “But not any more?”

“No. Maybe before Rush Valley but now . . . me and Eloise don't have anything in common any more. And if I'm going to be with someone, I want it to be someone who _gets it_. Gets that I'm not just building auto-mail because it's a job but because of what it means to people. Someone I can talk to about it, bounce ideas off and –”

“Someone like Winry, you mean?”

Doddie came to a crashing halt. The colour drained from his face, leaving his freckles to stand out like a blood spatter. He swallowed. “Please don't tie me to the ceiling again.”

“You like her. Don't you?”

“I, uh . . . I mean, we're friends – we never – we didn't – we weren't –”

Ed sighed and kneaded his forehead. “I'm not going to transmute you into a pillar of salt because you think Winry is attractive. Did you think I hadn't noticed?”

“Wait, you can do that? I mean . . . yeah. OK. I thought for a while that maybe . . . but I . . . honestly, I think she was always more into Paninya than me.”

Winry was more into . . . ? Ed stared into space for a second. Actually, that made sense.

“I mean, Rockbell's amazing,” Doddie was saying, “but – she's a genius! Even if you'd never come back, I don't think I ever had a ch – why the hell am I telling you this? Why the hell are you _asking_ about this? I'm not trying to – look, I didn't come here to . . . you know . . . I'd never do that! Honestly, this is just the first place it seemed like I could go and –”

Ed reached over the table and pushed Doddie firmly back into his seat. “Look. I don't care. I'm not jealous about some maybe thing you didn't have with Winry. I wasn't there, that's between the two of you. It's not my business, OK? You want the truth, I'm a lot more jealous of you getting to be her friend for years while I wasn't here. And I've felt that towards Paninya and Sheska and a whole bunch of other people who I like a lot better than you, so . . . yeah. Calm down.”

“Right. Right.” Doddie did not look very calm or particularly reassured. But he stayed put and stuffed some more food into his mouth.

“And you're right, this isn't the end of the world. But I'm getting nowhere with the big stuff at the moment so if I can help out with something small then . . . yeah, sure, if Winry's happy for you to stay with us for a bit, I'm OK with it too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Winry, of course, insisted that Doddie stay as long as he needed.

She came in yawning but her face lit up when she saw Ed waiting for her. They fell into a tight hug, breathing each other in. Was that ridiculous? They'd only been apart a week this time. But now they were used to being together so much . . .

He joked that she was just happy to see him because it meant she didn't have to cook dinner. She grinned and told him that it was a definite perk of the arrangement.

Thankfully, stretching the meal he'd planned to three wasn't hard. Winry and Doddie talked as they ate, Winry getting incensed about the whole attempted arranged marriage thing, Doddie wanting to hear all about what it was like to be a mechanic in Central. Ed was happy to let them chat away, his mind drifting to his perpetually-delayed research. All those ideas he scribbled down and never had the time to work up properly. He really needed to talk to Mustang about getting some space to do actual science in among all the political shit –

“Huh? What d'you say?”

“I was asking what you'd been doing lately.” Doddie wagged his fork in the air. “Or is that a state secret?”

“Uh . . . some of it, probably.” Ed shook himself. “Mostly just dull administrative stuff.”

“Really? Dull?” Winry looked at him sideways. “You told me you got into a fight with some local prefect's private army.”

“That was just a few guys with antique guns. And it wasn't really a fight.”

“Yeah, when he says that, he means it wasn't a very _long_ fight,” she said to Doddie, “What'd you do? Transmute the ground into quicksand?”

“Of course not. They'd have still been able to shoot me if I did that. I turned the cannon into chains, wrapped 'em up and dropped 'em in the moat. Don't worry, it wasn't very deep. They're all fine.”

“The _cannon_?”

“Didn't I mention that? I think they'd heard I was coming.”

“And this was all . . . administrative?” Doddie hazarded.

“Someone had to deliver the letters revoking the prefect's authority.”

Strangely, after that, Ed's travels seemed to be all the other two wanted to talk about.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Night!” Winry called, Doddie's reply getting lost in the turn of the staircase.

Ed lay on the bed, arms folded behind his head. There was a discoloured patch on the ceiling that he wasn't sure had been there the last time he'd been home. He'd have to check the loft, make sure that the roof wasn't leaking. Unless Winry had already done that. He'd have to remember to ask. Maybe he was wrong. Had he paid much attention to the ceiling last time? That had been a flying visit, stopping over as he rushed from one end of the country to the other to track down a metalsmith.

He really hoped the roof wasn't leaking.

“You OK?” Winry asked from the doorway. She leant against the jamb as she pulled out her hair tie.

Ed realised he had a dopey grin on his face. “Just wondering if I'm finally getting domesticated.”

“Hah!” She disappeared into the bathroom and the sounds of running water and tooth-bushing ensued for a couple of minutes. When she came back, she was in her night dress, hair streaming down like . . .

The way Winry's hair fell over her shoulders when it was down. Honestly, Ed was not really sure what else he should compare it to and was kind of glad she'd never expected poetry from him. It just looked _good_.

She closed the door and came over to the bed, flopping down next to Ed with a great 'whooof!' noise. He turned on to his side. “Tired?”

“Mm hm.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “S'funny. You'd think just measuring people up or helping them through exercises would be easier than actually building their auto-mail.”

“People are exhausting.”

“Heh. I guess so.” She rolled over to face him. “Are you _sure_ you don't mind Doddie staying here? I know he isn't your favourite person in the world . . .”

“Yeah, but he's your friend. If he needs help . . .”

“You're a good guy, Edward Elric. You know that?”

 _No I'm not_ , whispered the thoughts at the back of his head, the ones that endlessly repeated every sin he'd ever committed. But when Winry said he was good, when they were lying together and it was just the two of them – they were quieter than normal and he could almost believe she was right.

He gently stroked her arm, steel fingers ghosting over her muscles. “Are _you_ happy about him staying here?”

“Well, I'm going to be making him work for it. It'll be nice to have the help for a while.”

“And you don't mind that he . . .”

“What?”

Ed realised he was probably speaking out of turn. This really was none of his business. He was going to tell her it was nothing, only her mouth parted in an 'ah' of comprehension before he could.

“We're friends. I know I teased you before but really, that's all. And he knows that.”

“I know – I just don't want it to get awkward for you or anything.”

She touched his cheek, brushing the curve of his jaw. “You know, if I'd ended up with anyone else, I bet I'd be having an argument right now about how they didn't have to be jealous. But you're just worried _I_ might be uncomfortable with it?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

She leant in to kiss him and he kissed her back and after that, neither of them thought about anything but each other for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Doddie, as some of you may recall, is a character I created to take Winry's place as Garfiel's apprentice in Rush Valley, since she ended up as Dominic's student in this version. Bringing him back here was a whim, though it does ultimately serve the plot.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'I Bet My Life' by Imagine Dragons, which is one of my go-to 'actually sums up Ed/Winry fairly well' songs. Bonus points for one of the guys in the music video being dead on for what I imagine a grown-up anime!Al would look like.


	5. Watch The Wall, My Darling

Hawkeye hadn't been involved in preventing Aerugan arms being smuggled into Ishbal during the so-called Eastern Rebellion. She knew of no one who had. It should have been a priority, a security breach that needed to be closed urgently. Instead, the attention it received from Central Command barely amounted to an internal memo, and a steady influx of guns and bombs allowed the Ishbalans to hold off a far superior force for years.

But of course that had been the point, hadn't it? The longer the fighting lasted, the more desperate both sides grew and the more extreme the measures they were willing to take to win . . .

Only once something like peace was finally restored in the East did the smuggling turn into a scandal. Investigations were pursued. Ambassadors were summoned. Perpetrators were executed. Tensions rose on the southern border and new battlefronts opened in the name of extracting reparations. Skirmishes by comparison to the slaughter in Ishbal. But perhaps, if the fruits of that war had not ripened, Aerugo would have been where the next seeds were planted.

Hawkeye wondered what it was like, to view misery and devastation as a gardener might good soil and fertiliser. To see human life as a base ingredient to be refined and transmuted. Was that so different from letting a sniper's scope turn a person, with all their dreams and fears, into a mere target? It scared her to imagine that the gulf between her and the woman who had been master to the homunculi was one of scale rather than kind. She would likely never voice that fear, yet it sometimes kept her up at nights. She would lie there, redrawing the lines she chose not to cross and trying to believe they were cut into something more solid than memories of desert sand.

At least on this particular night, she could be certain where right and wrong lay.

The gang was not one of those that gave themselves a cute nickname and ran around trying to stake territory. They were tight-knit and professional, in it for the money and nothing else. That focus brought a ruthlessness that made getting at them from the inside a highly dangerous and time consuming prospect. Since their operations were imminently threatening the security of at least two nations, it had therefore been decided that the only option was to go in with force and round them up.

'It had been decided.' That was always the way with orders from higher up. As if they emerged from the firmament, fully formed, refusing all interrogation. Even when she had the ear of the one making the decisions, Hawkeye couldn't help thinking about all those lower down the chain who just had to live with them. Men like those she was leading into a darkened train yard, who had been told precisely as much as they needed to get the job done and none of the context for why it needed doing. They did not expect more. They could not demand an explanation. They just had to act on trust that someone, somewhere, had a plan.

For now, she was the step between that someone and those enacting his plan. She bore the responsibility of upholding trust on both sides of the equation and the weight of that should have been enough to turn her insides to jelly

Fortunately for everyone involved, Riza Hawkeye was very, very good at taking her feelings and locking them in a small box while she got on with her job.

At her command, the squad moved in. Dressed for night operations, they slipped through a hole cut in the train yard fence and spread along the lines of waiting goods wagons. Two groups circled around to either end. The third headed straight for the train in the middle of the yard. Hawkeye, at the front of that third group, checked her weapon one last time and began counting off the seconds.

Their target was a truck drawn up next to a long boxcar. In its headlights, men carried crates between the two vehicles. If it had been the daytime, there would have been nothing suspicious about the scene. The whole point of a yard like this was to exchange goods between road and rail.

Although that said, there were not too many cargoes that necessitated an armed escort. Even in the sunshine, the man leaning against the truck holding a rifle across his chest would have been out of place.

Which was not to say the gun looked out of place in his hands.

Hawkeye wondered if he had ever shot anyone during one of these midnight exchanges. Or did his ease with the weapon come from other times and places where a bullet had been the most efficient way of concluding business?

She finished counting and signalled to the men behind her. There was a brief stir of movement, a moment of tense anticipation and then she shouted, as loud and clearly as possible, “Stay where you are and raise your hands!”

If the gang had not felt comfortable enough to have the truck's lights on, the soldiers would have had to use torches to pick out targets, marking their positions. Instead, to the men in the headlights, it must have seemed as if the shadows themselves were calling out and making the sounds of weapons being readied.

Most of them froze. One of them dropped his crate and went for the pistol at his hip. Hawkeye put a bullet through the crate, splintering the wood a hand-span from his leg.

“Put down your weapons or we will open fire.”

The man with the rifle saw the muzzle flash and automatically brought his own weapon to bear. A shot from one of the other sharp-shooters ripped into the ground at his feet. He flinched . . . hesitated . . . and then put the gun down. The rest of the gang exchanged looks and began to follow his lead.

It was over in minutes. None of the men they rounded up were inclined to make a fight against twelve heavily armed soldiers. The flip-side of their professionalism. They may all have been fuming at the loss of their payday but they were not going to risk their lives to avenge it. Some of them expressed surprise that it was soldiers bearing down on them rather than the police. The rifleman tried a line in 'perfectly innocent, guv'na' as he was being handcuffed: “You'll find just as many crates in there as there are supposed to be.”

Hawkeye walked over to the one she had shot and prised off the side. Tins of beans came tumbling out. She looked into the boxcar. One of her men heaved an identical crate over to the door. He pulled off the lid, then lifted out one layer of tins on a thin piece of wood. From beneath this, he extracted a brand-new handgun and held it up for Hawkeye's inspection. She looked pointedly at the rifleman.

He pulled a face and let himself be shoved down next to the others.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Once she was absolutely sure the scene was locked down, Hawkeye hurried back to the van waiting on the road outside the yard. She accepted a headset from the RT operator and spoke crisply into the microphone.

“Team One to Team Two. Mission accomplished. Requesting status update.”

The operator on the other end confirmed, but then there was a brief crackle of static and a new voice said,  _ “Ah, Lieutenant Dakota here, sir. Captain Havoc wanted me to let you know we've had some trouble.” _

“What kind of trouble?”

“ _They made a fight of it, I'm afraid. It's all under control now only – ah, here's the Captain.”_

The speakers crackled again and a weary-sounding Havoc said,  _ “Hey Hawkeye. I hope you're having a good night because it all went to shit here.” _

“We were able to secure this location with no casualties. What happened on your side?”

“ _Some smart ass with a rocket-launcher. Managed to blow himself up, but that got all his pals in a fighting mood. We had to take them out. Killed three, managed to take one alive, barely. I've got three men wounded, two badly.”_

“I'll send reinforcements –”

“ _No, it's fine. The General already moved the clean-up team in ahead of schedule.”_ Havoc's breath hissed down the line.  _ “He is not happy.” _

Hawkeye could imagine, very clearly. “I'll let him know that things went better on this end. Did anyone escape the cordon at the warehouse?”

“ _No. We're pretty sure we got 'em all.”_

“Then the entire smuggling operation should have been neutralised. That's success, Havoc.”

“ _Yeah, well. You get to explain that to Mustang, not me.”_

Given how long they had known each other, Hawkeye wished she could offer some kind of reassurance. To at least tell him that whatever happened, the General would not hold damage done by a fool on the other side against him.

But right now, nothing she said would make him feel any better.

“I'll see you back at South Command.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Surprisingly, Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed turned out in person to supervise the arrival of the prisoners and the confiscated guns. Since none of his men had been involved, Hawkeye assumed he would maintain the same cautious distance he had shown since General Mustang's task-force arrived in South City. But there he was, straight-backed, salt-and-pepper hair catching the floodlights as he watched the vans pull up.

Hawkeye came to attention and saluted him, rather wishing that he was not there to slow her down.

“Captain,” he acknowledged, “Congratulations on a successful raid.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Any special arrangements needed for our guests here?”

“I don't believe so.”

“No alchemists, chimeras, heavy auto-mail implantation . . . ?”

“No sir.”

“I'm almost disappointed. One hears such interesting stories about the Brigadier General's operations.”

“Yes sir,” Hawkeye agreed, keeping her face blank.

“Ah well. Carry on, Captain. Don't let me detain you.”

“Sir.”

She walked the remaining distance to the command centre with a powerful itch between her shoulder blades. Had there ever been a time when she actually afforded her fellow officers the benefit of the doubt? When she had first joined up, they had been the same source of terror they were to every cadet. When she'd been commissioned, it simply meant moving a little higher in the food-chain. And when she'd joined the Flame Alchemist's staff, it was in the pursuit of goals that automatically designated everyone outside that immediate circle as a potential enemy. Perhaps that should no longer be the case, now things had changed so much. And yet . . .

It was hard to shake habits that kept her alive.

South Command was built along the same lines as Central, East or any of the other big military complexes. The same stern, towering architecture, the same powder grey corridors – the same omnipresent smell of wood-polish and dry paper. Familiar. And dangerous because of it.

Enemy territory that masqueraded as safety was the worst kind.

Lockheed had assigned them a suite of rooms in a corner of the main building. Hawkeye suspected he chose the offices specifically to keep the visitors out of his way for the duration of their stay. It was what she would have done in his position. She did not mind. The privacy it afforded them was worth walking the extra distance.

Breda and Falman had swept the rooms for bugs. Havoc had drawn up an exit strategy. She had memorised the best cover and vantage points.

They'd made the biggest of the offices into a command post. A map of South City and its environs was spread over two tables pushed together. An RT set stood off to the side, allowing communication that bypassed the command centre's switch-board. More desks held files and charts, most of which they'd brought with them, a few on loan from Lockheed.

Falman was manning the radio when Hawkeye came in. He glanced over, began to salute, got his arm tangled in the wires and sheepishly went back to whatever conversation he was having when she held up a hand.

Breda looked across at her as well, mumbling a greeting. He was juggling building records at one of the desks, bundles of them in each hand and one sheet held in his lips while he hunted for whichever document he actually needed. She should probably have told him to take State paperwork out of his mouth, but there were more important things to attend to first.

Brigadier General Mustang stood at the head of the map-table, studying the pinned flags as if they might reveal arcane secrets. In spite of the hour, he looked poised and alert. His eye flicked across the map once, twice before acknowledging Hawkeye's presence, giving her time to get around the table and come to attention a metre from his side.

“What did we get?”

“Seven suspects in custody. Three crates of rifles. Two of handguns. All with serial numbers effaced. They were switching them out for crates of food that had already passed checks on arrival here.”

“Just as we thought. Well done, Captain. You did good work tonight.”

The praise carried a warm undertone of 'I'm glad you're all right' but Hawkeye could hear the reservations, see them in how quickly the General's eye went back to the map.

“What's Havoc's situation?” she asked.

“The injured have been evacuated to the hospital. He's still on the ground, investigating the warehouse. Hopefully there will be something there to make up for that part going wrong.” Mustang's hand, resting lightly on the edge of the table, curled so that the thumb ran along the length of his forefinger. “I should have gone myself.”

“We agreed that the Flame Alchemist turning up for this kind of raid would make our investigation too high-profile.” She did not add the other reason: that seeing a State Alchemist coming might persuade the smugglers to try something stupid. That was a moot point now.

“Yes.” The hand was still curled, not quite a fist. “It would.”

“Regardless of what happened, this will put a stop to the smuggling.”

“At least until the suppliers find someone else to do the deliveries.”

“We have prisoners. They may be able to tell us what we need to know.”

“True. And with luck, Havoc will find the folder marked 'secret plan' and we can have this wrapped up by the end of the week.”

Mustang flipped his hand over and rapped his knuckles against the table. Then he turned to look properly at Hawkeye. “Go get cleaned up. We'll debrief properly when Havoc's back.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the time it took Hawkeye to change into her normal uniform, a thoroughly miserable Havoc returned bearing more illicit weapons and a bundle of papers that someone had tried inexpertly to burn. The General listened to his report with apparent indifference, his face studiously unreadable. Hawkeye knew that was as much for Havoc's benefit as anything else. Better not to react at all than show irritation and demoralise him even further.

Mustang walked around the table, ostensibly to get a closer look at the burnt papers, and laid a hand briefly on Havoc's shoulder. It could simply have been to move him aside. But from the way he relaxed, just slightly, he understood it meant more than that.

Hawkeye stepped in to fill the spot on Mustang's right while he spread the papers out in front of him. They made a motley collection: timetables, blueprints, scrawled lists . . . The biggest sheet was some kind of map; of what, it was hard to tell. A few scraps of newspaper rounded out the horde, although those looked simply to have been used as kindling.

The General tapped the map. “Well unless someone is pulling a very daring double-bluff, I am going to assume this has something to do with where the guns are coming from.”

“That's what I thought,” Havoc said, “I'd guess those are mine workings?”

“Interesting. We'll have to see if the Colonel's excellent records department has anything we can compare this to.”

“No invoices or receipts,” Hawkeye noted.

“You expect criminals to file everything for the tax office?”

“No sir. But if there had been any, it might suggest a legal exchange of goods on the other side of the border. As yet, we still have no information on that part of this arrangement.”

“No . . . we don't.”

Havoc folded his arms tight across his chest. “So we're still considering that the Aerugeans could be throwing guns at Ishbal in the hopes it'll kick us in the ass again?”

“As Captain Hawkeye says, we have no information. Ah.”

The door opened, Lieutenant Dakota shouldering his way inside carrying a cardboard box. “The, err, samples you requested, Brigadier General, sir.” He came over to the table at and placed the box down gingerly.

“Falman,” Mustang ordered, returning his gaze to the charred map.

Grabbing a pair of cotton gloves from beside the radio set, Falman hurried over. Once he had the gloves on, he opened up the box and extracted a handgun that gleamed blackly under the lights. He turned it around a couple of times, studying it from every angle before peering closely at the stock. This done, he held it out to Mustang for inspection. “A Beretta 1914. A gun of Aerugean manufacture. The serial number has been removed, but otherwise it is in perfect condition.”

“Just like all the rest,” Havoc muttered.

Mustang sighed. “Just like the rest.”

Dakota adjusted his half-moon spectacles. “The recovered weapons have been stored in C block. Under guard. Our men.”

Havoc nodded to him. “Good work. I'm guessing we still don't want word getting around about . . . all this?”

“We may have to inform Colonel Lockheed if we want to get a fix on where the guns are coming from.” Hawkeye narrowed her eyes, trying to work out how they could play the search without clearly indicating they expected the site on the burnt map to be on the border with Aerugo.

“Can we trust him?” Breda was still sitting at his desk, the records he'd been searching through now stacked haphazardly by his elbow. “This is all happening in his sector.”

For a moment or two, no one spoke. Hawkeye expected they, like her, were considering how well-placed the man in charge of watching the border would be to let contraband slip over it.

“Let's not jump to assuming this is a conspiracy.” Mustang lifted his eye to look at each of them in turn. “For now, this is just a security issue that we need to get on top of as quickly and quietly as possible. I'll speak to the Colonel in the morning. State Alchemist to State Alchemist. We'll see where we stand after that.”

He waited for their assenting nods, then said, “Falman, Breda – while I'm doing that, I want you to take statements from our guests. After a few hours in the cells, they may have worked out that cooperation is their best option.”

Havoc half-raised his hand. “Permission to go back to the warehouse and hunt around some more? In the morning, I mean. Might as well take another look in daylight.”

“Good idea. Captain Hawkeye –”

“I'll compile the after-action reports and begin working out a strategy should we be unable to quickly identify the location on this map.” She paused. “Unless you need me in your meeting with Colonel Lockheed?”

The corners of Mustang's mouth twitched. “Thank you, Captain, but I think I'll be OK on my own. Now everyone go and get some sleep. I don't want to spend tomorrow ordering around a bunch of zombies.”

“After you, sir.”

He gave her a look, which she met steadily. “Of course,” he relented, heading for the door, “See you all in the morning.”

Hawkeye chivvied the others out after him, easily in the case of Dakota and Breda, slightly more forcefully for Falman. She left Havoc for last, coming back to stand beside him at the table until he blew out his cheeks and muttered that he could definitely use the rest. He did not move. Calculating the chances of being able to sleep and coming up with long odds.

“I packed some of that tea you hate,” she told him, “It always helps me when I can't nod off. Maybe just for tonight . . . ?”

“Hah. Sure. Why not.”

As he let her guide him gently to the door, Hawkeye reflected that the trick to putting away your feelings was remembering to take them out again at the end of the day. It was foolish to believe that simply honouring trust or friendship would stop you turning into a monster. She had seen too many horrors sprouted from love and loyalty to fall for that trap. Yet at the same time, she had also learned that those things were exactly what you needed to cure yourself of a sniper's perspective.

And she doubted very much that the Shepherd of Sins got where she was by offering tea to friends in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I kind of wanted to write a Hawkeye chapter that was not focused around Mustang.  
> \- Dakota remains my own invention and currently serves as Havoc's dogsbody.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Josephine Knots' by Thea Gilmore (yeah, get used to a lot of Thea Gilmore songs in these notes – they're amazing). I don't quite know why this song makes me think of Hawkeye. Perhaps it's just the sense of unspoken promises mixed with vaguely unsettling imagery.


	6. Military Industrial Complexities

“So there you have it, gentlemen. The tests are almost complete and as you have seen today, we have a most amazing vehicle in our hands. Pretty soon, we'll have dozens of them ready to go. And then you'll have to figure out what the collective noun for 'flying machine' is!”

Marco  Cavaier grinned at the scattered laughter. He did so enjoy making jokes. People laughing at them was not essential to that enjoyment, but it  _ was _ satisfying to hear their approval.

He adjusted his spectacles and peered at his notes. “Now, what say we stop listening to me drone on and dig into this lovely buffet my kitchen has kindly provided? I'll take questions over lunch.”

It was always fun to see how easily people could be manipulated with food. At once the crowd of distinguished guests dissolved into confusion as everyone tried to get to the plates without stepping on the toes of people more important than they were. Ministers and military officers reduced to children in a lunch queue, their relationships with one another laid just as bare. Truly delightful.

Cavaier stepped down from the speaker's podium and peered out through the tall windows that made up one end of the observation lounge. The view had probably been much nicer when it was all farmland, before the factories came and the march of progress layered green fields beneath concrete and tarmac. Now there was just the main strip, stretching away like a particularly straight oil-slick. The sight of it made him itch for forests or lakes or even the bitter dustiness of the desert edge. Something real, not this artificial landscape.

Why should that be? Why should this, of all things, concern him? Humankind always bent the world to its vision. Who was he to criticise the results and wish instead for the elegance of nature?

Well. Someone who appreciated artistry more than industry, perhaps. The ugliness offended him. No care had been given to the sensibilities of those who worked there. If he had taken charge but a few months earlier, he could have done something about that. Too late now, though.

His eyes tracked down from the horizon, to what was more immediately in front of the building. The point of this gathering of the great and good. Now there was some artistry. True, the shape of the thing was determined by complicated mathematics that he trusted others to understand, but those equations of lift and thrust and air resistance still managed to produce something pleasing to the eye. The weeping wings, the a dart-shaped nose, a fan of rocket-engines still cooling from the latest test flight. Even unpainted, rendered in raw materials alone, it was a vision of power and the ability of mere people to catch the coat-tails of the gods.

It would have been worth creating for its own sake, never mind all the uses to which it could be put.

“Mr Cavaier. I must commend you on a most interesting demonstration.”

He turned to find the Prime Minister of Amestris standing behind him. Mortimer Haeker had forgone a plate of lunch. Presumably he felt it would be beneath his dignity to try eating and conversing at the same time.

General Grumman, standing at his shoulder, clearly felt no such qualms. His moustache twitched as he grinned around a mouthful of the fish-thing-on-toast. “Oh, absolutely. Quite impressive. I especially liked how it bounced on the way down.”

Cavaier coughed self-deprecatingly. “There are things that still need refining, of course.”

“Of course.” Haeker tapped his lips. “We're not expecting you to deliver them tomorrow. After all, we still need to work out what exactly we are going to do with them.”

“Oh my yes,” Grumman agreed, sorting through the canapés on his plate, “It's a bit of a leap from spotter balloons to that magnificent machine.”

“I heard there's talk of creating a completely new organisation to take charge of . . . well, flight.” Cavaier traced the stitching on his right glove. “A military of the air?”

“More like a  _ ministry _ of the air,” Haeker said smoothly, “The defence applications are obvious but they don't exhaust the possibilities before us.”

“Indeed not. Regardless, my company continues at your disposal.”

Grumman swallowed a piece of meat pie. “Of course. How much are we paying you for all this, again?”

With a laugh, Cavaier tapped the old man on his epaulette. “A king's ransom! But you can't say I'm not putting it to good use. Now gentlemen, if you don't mind, I'm going to take my own advice and apply myself to the buffet. Help you to a scone, Prime Minister?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Aaaaah!” After five hours being harmlessly pleasant to the cream of the Amestris ruling class, a little privacy came as sweet relief. It was fun to toy with them, entertain them, distract them – but only for so long. After that, the urge to fling himself through of the windows started to become overpowering. Which would hardly be fitting for poor, invalid Marco Cavaier, now would it?

“Oh, but these people are so  _ boring _ !” he complained as he peeled off his gloves, “Either I have to deal with decrepit old soldiers who imagine their incompetence was some terrible trick played upon them by their enemies, or else it's idiot politicians, so proud of every minuscule change they impose on the world.” The thought ended in a chuckle. “How I wish we could just kill them all now. Do you think we could do that? Forget all the planning and just –” He drew a finger across his neck and made a gurgling noise.

“If it is your will, master, they shall die tonight.”

The voice came from the corner of the room, where the draperies contrived to cast deep shadows. That was the advantage of elaborate decorations. So many hiding places.

He beckoned and the guard stepped into the open. He studied the masked form from under his eyelashes. “You would do it if I asked, wouldn't you? Stab your way across the country until there was nobody left . . .” His tongue flicked over his teeth. Then he shook himself. “No. No, there is too much at stake to be rash now. Besides. Even you might not be able to take down an entire nation undetected. And whatever would I do if you were caught and killed by these barbarians?”

The guard made no response. Of course not. There were times when he wished . . .

But no. That would not have been proper.

“We shall continue as planned. In the long term, it will be just as sweet.” Lifting the spectacles from his nose, he held them up to the light. The glow from the lamps turned cold in the dark lenses. “I suppose.”

In one smooth motion, he placed the glasses in a case on the dressing table. “Shall we go see how the work is progressing?” he asked, spinning around and clapping his hands, “Perhaps we'll find that things can proceed more swiftly than expected? Wouldn't that be good?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The inside of the works was a maze of iron and stone, full of pounding machinery and thrumming pipes. None of it was any more aesthetically appealing than the exterior, though perhaps that was more forgivable in the tools of industry than their casing. He reflected, as the elevator carried them into the depths, that his ancestors would have considered such a place wholly unfit for one his station. This was the realm of those who soiled their hands for a living, trading their art and science for the means to exist. He was above them, above the scrabble and toil of their lives. To lower himself and walk among their ranks would be a burden at best and at worst, an outright a taint.

With respect to his honoured forefathers, on this point they were full of manure.

He greeted every technician with a smile and a nod of encouragement. He shared jokes with the alchemists as they told him of their progress and listened as they spoke of what they needed to complete their work. It was only little things now. The final tweaks to years of preparation. He savoured their anticipation, their excitement. This was what he lived for, to be among his people and to share in the things they felt. They could never taint him, not when he was going to lift them with him.

“You're looking happy, master. Can I assume things went well today?”

He put the gauntlet he had been examining back on the rack with the others. “Oh, yes. Everyone from Central is quite happy with our progress. If only they knew, eh?”

Cassandra did not return his smile. She so rarely did. Hopefully that would change when everything was over. “You are certain that they did not notice anything amiss?”

“How could they, when you arranged everything so perfectly?”

“Thank you, but I am still uncomfortable with the timing. We are so close to being ready.”

“It's not suspicious. The review was brought forward because of this festival of theirs. I think the Prime Minister still hoped we'd have something he could put at the head of the parades. Can you imagine, one of our Shrikes on a float behind a brass band?”

Her eye twitched. “Did you agree to that?”

“Of course not. I persuaded him that it would be too risky to transfer the prototype to Central and besides, better to wait until we have the finished model. Or, I let him persuade himself of that. You know how it goes.”

“We need to be careful.” She hugged her clipboard to her chest. “Any suspicions at this stage –”

Her breath caught as he took her by the shoulders. She had been with them long enough to know that his touch should not be taken lightly. He held her gaze and waited until he was sure he had her full attention. “Cassandra. I won't let them find you. Or interfere with the work before it's complete. Have a little faith. A few more days and they won't be  _ able _ to stop us.”

“I . . .” She closed her eyes. “Of course. It's just . . . we are so close.”

“I know. Believe it or not, I get butterflies thinking about it myself! Soon we'll hold everything in the palm of our hand! The Military, all those State Alchemists. The Elrics. Amestris itself.”

He let her go and she exhaled, relaxing a little. “So you still want to go through with . . . bringing him in isn't strictly necessary.”

“It's not remotely necessary. But I want one of them here to watch it all unfold.”

“And that monster – if it gets out of hand again –”

“Then Brigadier General Mustang will be even less of a problem than expected. Faith, Cassandra.”

After a second, she let her head drop forward, brown hair tumbling around her face. “Yes master.”

Part of him wanted to run his fingers through that hair, or just pat it in the hopes that that might be more reassuring. That was something people did, was it not? To soothe and calm each other?

Now that  _ would _ be beneath his dignity!

“So,” he said instead, “Is there anything else I should see while I'm down here?”

“Um, yes. Given what we were just talking about . . . Mei, please can you bring me the collar we fashioned? You will like this,” she told him, “It should work just as you hoped.”

He made encouraging noises, though in truth his mind was already turning away, towards the glorious future so rapidly approaching. Soon, it really would all come together. He understood Cassandra's concerns and he certainly did not mean to diminish them. There were a thousand factors that could go either way, a thousand mistakes that could be made. So much of it relied on those they could not trust or creatures whose power they could barely contain. The whole thing might yet blow up in their faces.

But he had faith. Faith in his people. Faith in himself. Faith that when it came down to it, there was nothing in the world that could stand in their way.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that they would succeed. And then –

Then at long last, all would be made right again.

Never mind the butterflies, thinking about that made his heart  _ soar. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


The sight of it made Zaniel's heart sink. Was that wrong? To look on his people rebuilding and feel nothing but disgust? He couldn't help it. The lights of Dahsan were poison to his eyes.

Those damn train lines. The whole city existed because of them. The last link in a chain of Amestrian beneficence and Dahsan, a drop of drying blood on the end. It only existed here because that was as far as the railway reached. This was where the cowards who called themselves Ishbal's elders unloaded the riches with which foreigners had bought them with. Their vision of what the nation should: drip-fed and slaved to outsiders.

If he could, he'd rip the tracks up with his bare hands. Tear out the infection, chop off this diseased limb and reverse the corruption. That would be a joyous thing to do.

“Zan! What are you doing? We need to keep out of sight.”

Zaniel looked over his shoulder to see a mop of grey hair poking over the edge of the bluff. Ah, Madron. Still a bag of nerves after all this time. “Stop panicking. No one will see us.”

“You sure?”

Ever since that kid joined up, Zaniel had been waiting for the moment when his courage ran out and he broke faith. Yet somehow, it never came. Then again, where would he go? He was marked, just like the rest of them. There was no way his poppa was going to take him back now.

“Yes, I'm sure. Don't worry.” Zaniel stretched and heaved a sigh. “I just wanted to take a last look.”

“R-right . . . Uh, then sorry to interrupt but . . . the old man's back. He wants to talk to you.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first time he'd seen the old man, Zaniel had pegged him as one of the drifters who blew in off the edge of the desert. He had the same weather-beaten look about him, with a hardness to the eyes that went beyond mere age. It made him difficult to read, even without the moustaches and the determinedly fixed scowl.

The man wasn't Ishbalan. But nor was he Amestrian. In Zaniel's book, that placed him in a column marked 'other', to be ignored or discarded. Or would have done, had he not offered his support to the cause.

“Hello my friend,” Zaniel greeted him, “I'm glad to have the chance to thank you in person for what you've done for us.”

With a grunt, the old man dipped his head. He wore a ragged coat over black clothes that looked far too fine for the wasteland. There was a band of white cloth tied around his head and knives sheathed at his hip.

“As you can see, we're about ready to act.” Proudly, Zaniel surveyed the camp. His men – his brothers – were busy cleaning and preparing their weapons. Guns and bombs from lands who hated Amestris as much as every Ishbalan should. “Is that why you're here? To check up on us?”

The old man folded his arms. “I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed.”

“I would welcome a tank or two! But . . . I think it'll be enough.”

“To attack your own kind? To burn down your own city?”

“It's not  _ my _ city. And I'm not welcome among my own kind, because I won't bow down to a god who forbids righteous vengeance for what was done to us! That city is full of cowards who would sooner invite monsters to tea than tear them out of this world. Setting it alight will be justice.”

The old man stared at Zaniel, unblinking, saying nothing.

“Perhaps you wouldn't understand.”

“No. But that's not my concern.”

“True enough. You know . . . I hear Alphonse Elric is among the alchemists that were invited here. I'm glad of that. I owe him a few bruises.”

“You have met him?”

“Yes. Once. He got in my way. I was hoping to settle the score one day.”

“You should focus on the task at hand. Seeking personal revenge can be a distraction.”

Zaniel laughed. “Oh, don't worry about me. I've been planning this ever since you told me the Amestrians were coming here. Putting a bullet between Elric's eyes is just part of the strategy.”

“And will this strategy restore your people's pride?”

“It will show them that we don't need to be cowed by doctrine or lulled with false gifts.”

The old man grunted again. “Then I wish you well.”

“Not going to stay and watch,  _ vir _ ?”

“No.” He let his hands fall to his sides and began to walk away. “I doubt we will meet again.”

Ominous parting words if ever Zaniel had heard them. He cocked his head. Put a hand on his gun. “How did you even get out here? I don't see that wagon of yours.”

In the fleeting backward glance the old man gave him, there was just a trace of amusement. Then he was gone, swallowed up by the desert and the darkness.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He had been waiting in the dark for days. Still. Silent. With nothing but rocks for company. All on the say-so of the little princeling who had promised him everything.

He was starting to get annoyed about that.

If this was another joke, he was going to be angry. There were only so many times he would allow himself be toyed with. And when his patience ran out . . .

Things were going to die.

His body stirred in anticipation. He reached out, flexing muscles without end, pushing limbs into every corner and every tunnel. Testing. Tasting. Feeling his way through the pit in which he stood. There was still nothing there. Not even a rat.

Hah. A rat. Yes. That was what he was waiting for.  _ The _ rat.

The princeling wanted him to do something clever. Humiliate the rat and play into its vanity. Perhaps he would. It would be such a fitting end.

But . . .

He had let the rat go once before. Let it slip though all his fingers and go on its merry way. No schemes or tricks or jokes were worth making that mistake a second time. If it came to it, he would rip down the roof and drop it all on the rat's head. Crush it. Mangle it. End its miserable existence –

It would be sweeter to choke it. Wrap all his hands around its neck and  _ twist _ –

Or slice it. Cut it. Bleed it out, one drop at a time –

Or maybe he would just kill everything it cared about, shatter its world into a billion fragments –

So, so many possibilities. So many ways to make it hurt. And it needed to hurt. To suffer. To know its end was coming. Nothing else would be enough.

A shiver passed through him. He curled up, cursing himself for letting his emotions run out of check. That was not the way. He needed to be patient. To be ready. If he was not able to act when the rat arrived –

That would not be permitted.

He would wait – silent, still – in the dark for a little while longer. A few more days. He would give the princeling a few more days to be right. The rat would come or it would not.

And if did not?

He would just have to go and find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This is the last chapter before an intermission – but I'm still writing far enough ahead of posting that I don't expect any breaks after that.
> 
> \- This chapter's song is 'My Evil Plan to Save the World' by Five Iron Frenzy, which is wildly inappropriate on several levels expect for it being exactly how you should be picturing Cavaier in these scenes.


	7. Intermission: Hearing Nothing Good

_They say Lord Chang, that most wise of advisors, did not sleep easy when the Sage of the West was welcomed into the Emperor’s palace. To him, any stranger who could so quickly impress themselves upon the court was a matter of great concern. Thus while the Sage worked his days in the great libraries and in long discussion with Master Hong, so did Lord Chang work his days watching the Sage. He knew not what mischief he was guarding against, yet still it was his duty to protect the Emperor from it._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The passage, narrow and cramped, offered little in the way of dignity to those who used it. Perhaps that was deliberate, a reminder of the indignity of the enterprise for which such tunnels were employed. Chang did not care. All that mattered was that he could overhear anything said in the rooms to which it adjoined.

Most especially the room in which the alchemist from the west had made himself at home.

Chang placed his back against the thin wall and folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes. Closing his eyes, he willed his body into perfect stillness, so that listening could be its sole focus. At first, there was nothing but the soft padding of feet on rugs. The clink of metal. The murmur of cloth. Then –

“Why so grim of face?” The alchemist's voice, speaking the rough language of his country. “How have I offended you?”

“Must you squander the Stone's power on amusements for the Emperor?” Another voice, a woman. The man's servant girl? That had been Chang's assumption of her role, or else that she was the visitor's concubine. Yet her tone was not that of a lesser addressing her master. “You could entertain him just as well without it.”

“I could. But not with so much theatre. This is more fun.” It seemed the alchemist found nothing to rebuke in his woman’s manner. Perhaps such was the way among barbarians. “Besides, these tricks consume the slightest fraction. Nowhere near enough to be of concern.”

“The slightest fraction again and again will surely leave us without a _large_ fraction, my love.” So not his servant and more than a concubine. Interesting.

“You did not complain when I used the Stone to rework this body.” The alchemist’s voice remained languid. “Are not surface trappings the very definition of triviality?”

“Don’t be absurd,” the woman snapped, “Explaining Trent’s death was far easier than it would have been to explain yours.”

“Such a cold calculation! My dear, one would almost think it was irrelevant that I also restored the face of the man you love.”

A high, bell-like laugh was followed by a sharp clink, as of goblets meeting in salute. “And salved your vanity into the measure! You are the image of yourself from when we first met.”

“While you are simply perpetually beautiful.”

“Well I will be if you do not waste our immortality on parlour tricks.” The woman’s voice dropped to a seductive whisper then rose again petulantly. “You said we would find the key to an even greater Stone here, not just more opportunities for you to be wasteful with it!”

“And we will.”

“Yet you say the so-called alchemy here is a heap of mystical nonsense!”

“And it is. It is of no use whatsoever, at least in the form practised by the venerable Master Hong. But there is something there. I need to study their texts, get a feel for the truth behind the religion. This Golden Elixir of theirs . . . the refinement within the body . . . I do wonder . . .”

“You wonder _what_ , my love?”

“Whether it is mere metaphor or whether it is the trace of some greater art they have forgotten.”

“If they have _forgotten_ , then how exactly are you intending to _learn_ about it?”

“As with everything . . . with patience . . . and applied . . . intellect . . .”

After a little while, the sounds coming from the room were of an entirely unedifying nature and Chang stole away, more suspicious than he had arrived.


	8. Prisons of Other People's Devising

“Morning, Major Elric! It's good to have you back.”

Ed tugged his uniform straight and gave a half-hearted wave to the corporal behind the reception desk. “Hi Sadie. It's, uh, nice to be back, I guess.”

“There's the full-throated enthusiasm for Central Headquarters that we love to see!” She looked past his shoulder. “Your brother not with you this time?”

“Afraid not. Work for the League. I don't know when he'll be in town again.”

“Oh, boo. I was going to ask him to the festival opening next weekend. I've got leave.”

“I'll tell him you were thinking of him the next time we talk,” Ed assured her as the sentry opened the inner door. And he would, if only to tease Al for having grown into such an unrepentant flirt.

He took the stairs to Mustang's office two at a time, impatient to be done with the inevitable military formalities. Did he have to report to someone higher up in the General's absence? Or was it enough to just turn up at his office and say hi to whoever was left behind – ?

“Woah!”

The woman with whom he'd nearly collided stepped smartly backwards and drew a breath to rip into him. Then she saw who it was and her expression softened. “Major Elric.”

“Ah, sorry Hawker. Wasn't watching where I was going.”

Major Hawker gave a  _ hm _ of agreement. She was a little older than the General, with severely short silver hair and the permanent scowl of someone who had come up through the ranks and took no shit from anyone who hadn't. Despite that, and Ed being the very definition of someone awarded a rank for just showing up, they got along OK. For one thing, they represented completely different branches of Mustang's work, so were never in danger of getting in each other's way.

“If you're looking for the Brigadier General, he's not here.” Hawker moved aside so that Ed could join her in the corridor.

“I heard. He skip town or something?”

“Damned inconvenient timing.”

“Why? Oh – the festival? I thought the civilian police were handling that?”

“They are. But with visiting dignitaries and the whole thing happening in the capital, there's still a tonne of security work for the Military to deal with. All of which has now landed on yours truly.”

Ed grimaced in sympathy. “Just like the General to run away from the paperwork. Look on the bright side, though. Maybe one of the balloons'll get loose and you'll get to blow it up.”

“Here's hoping. See you around, Major.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Fuery scrambled to his feet as Ed came in. He was on his own apart from Black Hayate and the desks in the outer office looked eerily empty without the heaps of files, newspapers and coffee mugs that Mustang's team usually covered them with.

“Wow,” Ed said, bending down to pet Hayate as the little dog rushed over to greet him, “Don't tell me they left you doing all the work on your own?”

The master-sergeant chuckled. “Oh, it's not like that. We drew lots to see who'd get to stay behind.”

“Sorry you lost.” Ed held out the report he'd brought with him. “Here. It's basically thirty pages of what I told you on the phone, but I figured Command would want it in writing.”

“Thirty pages of 'didn't find a damn thing'? Sounds like top quality military paperwork!” With great ceremony, Fuery placed it in one of the in-trays. “And I didn't lose. We all wanted to be the one to show you to your new office.”

“Wait, seriously? I finally get to ditch the boot-cupboard?”

“Yep!” He fished a couple of envelopes and a set of keys out of a drawer. “The General said to take you over there as soon as you came in.”

A needle of Mustang-related suspicion punctured Ed's eager anticipation of more bookshelf space. “Uh huh. And the catch is . . . ?”

“There's no catch. Uh, well – you'd probably better come and see. It'll be easier to explain that way.”

Against his better judgement, Ed followed Fuery back along the corridor and around to the west staircase. From there, they went to the ground floor, out through one of the side entrances and across to the alchemists' block. Ed knew the building well but the route Fuery took him was unfamiliar. Instead of taking the stairs up to the reading rooms and living quarters, they turned left down a passage that smelled of new paint. At the end was a single door bearing the words 'Alchemic Oversight Division'.

“Here we are!” Fuery said brightly. He fumbled with the keys and got the right one on the third try.

Ed frowned at the sign. “It's a really big catch, isn't it?”

Instead of the expected military-issue office, the door opened to reveal something like a library that cross-bred with a laboratory. Bookshelves ran down one side, stuffed with reference works and box files. Along the opposite wall was a line of cabinets, full of testing equipment and sample jars. A normal desk stood at the far end, under high windows giving a nice view of the inside of the perimeter wall. But the table down the middle of the room was more like a lab bench.

There were more doors to either side of the desk, leading to a couple of more ordinary offices and a storage room.

“So, what do you think?” The way Fuery sounded, he expected Ed to be jumping for joy.

“I think I want the explanation before I sign anything.”

“Sure! This is the office of the Alchemic Oversight Division – like it said on the door. I don't know if you heard of them back when you were working out of East Command? Probably not. The division was supposed to, well, oversee State Alchemy, but when the programme was under the command of people like Brigadier Grand, it kind of fell out of service. Actually, it became a sort of joke. It was revived after the Führer fell but ever since Colonel Royce had to retire after the, uh, alchemy plague thing, it's pretty much been an empty office.”

“And 'overseeing State Alchemy' meant what, exactly? Certifying alchemists and testing them?”

“Originally, but that all got taken over by Central Command pretty quickly. Mostly, the division made sure everyone followed the rules – you know, investigating suspected human transmutations, taking care of illicit chimeras, that kind of thing.”

Which certainly explained why it would have been side-lined once Dante solidified her control over the country. Though maybe that would have happened anyway. Ed was never sure where to draw the line between 'centuries long conspiracy' and 'people just being power-hungry assholes'.

“So now I'm getting the office because no one else is using it?” he asked hopefully.

“Well . . .” Fuery broke the seal on one of the envelopes and handed the other to Ed. “The General said I was to read this out, then you should read that.”

“And you guys _wanted_ to do this? You sure Mustang hasn't just been slowly twisting your brains all these years so that you'll actually beg for the kind of shit he drops on you?”

“'Major Edward Elric, by authority of Brigadier General Mustang, you are hereby commanded to take charge of the Alchemic Oversight Division with immediate effect. You are instructed to return the division to full operational capacity, reporting to your present commanding officer until such time as this has been achieved.' Then there's the General's signature and General Grumman's approval.”

Calm. Ed was going to stay calm. Mustang wasn't here and it wouldn't be fair to blow his top at Fuery, who'd clearly deluded himself into believing this was good news that he was honoured to deliver. And really – Ed was way past screaming and shouting about this kind of thing. He was old enough and wise enough now that he could take it all with a shrug and a sense of proportion. Right?

“That smug bastard's trying to trap me behind a desk?! I'm gonna choke him with his own gold braid!”

He tore open the letter Fuery had given him, pretending this was somehow equivalent to the actual bodily harm he wanted to inflict.

_Don't panic, Fullmetal_ , the letter began (and how exactly did anyone  _write_ with a smirk?),  _I'm not trying to trap you behind a desk. This is just formalising your role as 'that damned interfering alchemist' when it comes to the Father Cornellos and Basque Grands of this world. Hopefully having a team to help out on your capers will also stop you constantly bugging me for extra research time. I've squared it all with the higher-ups, who were forced to agree that you are ridiculously well-qualified for a job that mainly involves sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Sorry I cannot be there to listen to all the reasons you think this is a bad idea, but for the sake of my eardrums I thought it would be simpler to just side-step the argument. Suffice to say that I have complete confidence in you and look forward to seeing what you make of the division._

“Bastard,” Ed repeated with feeling.

There was a postscript:  _Hawkeye wants me to tell you that any shooting of the messenger will be responded to in kind._

And then:  _PPS – Obviously I tried to get you promoted as well and avoid two arguments at once, but even I can't sell the idea of a 22 year old lieutenant colonel. You'll just have to rely on experience and time-in-service to give you seniority for now._

“We all think you really deserve this,” said Fuery, before clarifying quickly, “In a good way! After everything you've done, giving you your own division is the least they can do.”

Groaning, Ed plucked his orders from the other man's hand and read them himself, looking for a loophole to get him out of this mess. There wasn't one. He tossed the page down on the bench, then began to tear Mustang's letter into strips. “So I get my own team, huh? Who the hell else did he rope into this?”

“Well, the General was talking to Lieutenant Falman about possibly moving to this division. But he needed him for this latest mission, so I guess you'll have to talk about that when they're all back.”

“Falman? Yeah, OK, I could work with him. At least I'd have someone to remember all the rules and regulations for me. What about you? Fancy getting out from under Mustang's thumb?”

Fuery rubbed the back of his head. “Oh no, I couldn't leave the General. Besides, I'm not sure I'd be that useful in dealing with crazed alchemists. Got my arm broken the last time I tried that!”

“Eh, your loss. So if I've not got Falman yet, who –”

There was a tentative knock on the door. It opened a second later to reveal the wide-eyed face of Denny Bloch. “Uh.” He pushed a strand of greasy blonde hair back behind his ear. “We're not late, are we?”

“He got me Officer Bloch.” Ed didn't mean for it to come out like that but . . . come on.

“Hey, I'm here too!” Someone else pushed Bloch into the room and stepped around him to give Ed a salute. “Private Sheska, reporting for duty!”

“Oh, right – Warrant Officer Bloch, reporting for duty, Major Elric, sir!”

“Don't overdo it, guys.” Ed pinched the bridge of his nose. “He got me Bloch and Sheska.”

“Aww.” Behind her enormous glasses, Sheska's face fell. “I thought you'd be happy to see us.”

“I am,” he admitted, “Sorry. Mustang dropped this on me all at once and I'm kind of mad about it. But – hey hang on. I thought you guys worked for that Fiat guy. Is he OK with you moving to –” The words stuck in his throat. “My division?”

“Err. Right. About that.” Bloch shuffled his feet.

“It's kind of a deal the Colonel made with General Mustang,” Sheska explained, “Because we have experience doing lots of background work for Investigations, we've got the skills you need to get your team off the ground. The General agreed to keep Colonel Fiat fully informed about your progress in exchange for us being seconded here to help you out.”

“He asked for Lieutenant Ross as well,” Fuery put in, “but Fiat vetoed it.”

“That's a shame,” Ed muttered.

“It is!” Bloch pouted. “He's got dozens of people working for him and he still wants to keep the lieutenant all to himself, like some miserable old dragon keeping a princess locked up in a tower, waiting for a knight in shining armour to come rescue her –”

Sheska rolled her eyes. “She's only in the next building and I'm sure she'll still eat lunch with you if you ask.”

“Anyway . . .” Fuery clapped his hands together. “These two are here to handle the administration and any archival work you need doing, as well as overseeing basic security operations.”

“Obviously Bloch will handle that bit. I'd probably not be very good at ordering soldiers around even if I wasn't just a private!”

Ed groaned again. “Troops as well? Never mind the gold braid, I'm feeding Mustang his whole damn uniform.”

“That'll only be if you need them,” Fuery said, “Day-to-day, you'll just have your immediate staff.”

“Great. So the whole division is just the three of us? Uh . . . look, I'm sure you're a good shot, Denny, but with some of the stuff I've come up against . . .”

“Don't worry, the General's arranged for you to have some field support too.”

The list of who else Mustang could have roped into this disaster had to be fairly short, right? For one thing, there was no way in hell Hawkeye was going to be reassigned. Havoc then? That would be OK, though Ed wasn't sure he would be able to put up with the constant smoking. Breda? Unlikely. And if Ross was out –

The slightly horrifying thought that the General might have persuaded Alex Louis Armstrong to come back passed through his head. No, no, that was silly. The former Strong-Arm Alchemist was far too happy in civilian life for that.

He was just about to give in and ask when someone coughed in the doorway.

The woman standing there was a complete stranger. She was tall, with deep brown skin and jet black hair cut even shorter than Hawker's. There was a thin scar across her forehead, just above her right eyebrow, which might have been distracting if it weren't for the hard, granite-like quality of her stare. It made Ed feel like she was trying to stab him with a look.

She snapped her watch shut. He caught a glimpse of a familiar pattern on the lid before it disappeared back into the pocket of her uniform trousers. “Apologies for arriving early,” she said, voice clipped and controlled, “I saw the door was open.” She straightened but did not salute. “Major Krista Wolff. I was ordered to report here as a member of your new team, Major Elric.”

“Right . . .” Ed shook himself. “Come on in. Pleased to meet you.”

The others snapped to attention. Damnit. Another actual honest-to-goodness officer meant he wasn't going to be able to get everyone to knock it off with all the bowing and scraping. Seriously – at this point, Mustang would be eating his entire fucking wardrobe the next time he dared show his face.

Adjusting his glasses, Fuery inched towards the door. “That's everyone. I should probably get back to the main building and leave you guys to get started. Let me know if there's anything you need that you can't get hold of from the stores. Oh, and the General said you'd probably want to handle transferring your books and notes yourself?”

“Yeah . . . sure, I'll handle that.” Anything that gave Ed an excuse to get out of his office suddenly seemed like a really useful thing to have.

_ His office _ .  _ His division _ . As the door clicked shut behind the master sergeant, Ed looked from Bloch to Sheska to Wolff. They looked back him – nervous, enthusiastic, glowering. He fought the urge to dive out the window and make a run for Risenbool.

“I . . . guess we'd better get started, then.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Turned out, 'getting started' mainly involved ordering a lot of shit from main stores and sorting through a bunch of old paperwork. Bloch went to set the wheels in motion with the quartermaster, since the sooner that was done, the better. Sheska commenced a frontal assault on the filing system, which was apparently all wrong for reasons Ed couldn't begin to fathom. Wolff shrugged off her jacket, rolled up her sleeves and took it upon herself to make an inventory of the scientific supplies.

And Ed looked through the departed Colonel Royce's records and tried to work out just what the hell he was meant to be doing.

Being an enforcer of the Military's rules was pretty far down the list of things he wanted from life. Though he supposed just being in the Military made you that. Even so, he liked being able to pick and chose when to give a damn about that aspect of the job. Heading a whole division that existed simply to make sure people followed the regulations was the last thing –

Halfway through Royce's notes, it struck Ed that Bradley had never actually told the AOD to stop chasing down alchemists who committed taboos. He – or at least the minions Dante manipulated through him – simply cut off the resources the division needed to do its job. It was left to wither away, clearing the path for monsters like Tucker without anybody actually needing to say 'it is now totally legal to raise the dead or sacrifice hundreds of lives to make a red stone.'

Of course, if the AOD had actually been effective at making sure State Alchemists kept to the rules as written, the Military would never have been able to develop red stones or human-based chimeras. Stretch a point and even using alchemy in the battlefield would have been drastically reduced. No turning people into bombs or letting living artillery loose on those they were meant to protect . . .

Going further, if the idea was to stop taboo acts being committed and halt the unethical use of alchemy in general, then it couldn't just be about punishing people afterwards, could it? You'd need to make sure people understood why those laws existed.  I f someone had come to Ed right after his mom died and told him not only that trying to bring back the dead was taboo, but  _ what might happen if he tried _ –

Oh, fuck. He was actually talking himself into the job, wasn't he? Quietly having the argument he wasn't having with Mustang, all in the confines of his own head. Which was exactly what the General was counting on, wasn't it? That Ed would come around to see the good he could do with a role like this, all the ways he could help people avoid making the mistakes he had . . .

The phone at his elbow startled him out of a long string of under-the-breath curses. He looked at it dumbly before it dawned on him that this was  _ his _ phone. Which he should be answering.

He hoped it was Mustang, so that he could do some eardrum-damaging.

“ _First Prison here, sir. Sorry for the short notice but we were told the request was urgent. Your visit to prisoner five-oh-three has been scheduled for eleven o'clock this morning.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


Prison had not been kind to Michael Dorian Helmont. That wasn't surprising. Prisons weren't kind to anyone. Yet still. They'd shaved off most of his tangled curly hair and that just emphasised how gaunt he'd gotten. As if he'd aged a decade since being arrested, not just a year.

His eyes had gotten harder too, all the shyness and friendliness stripped away. And maybe those qualities had always been a mask, but Ed still felt a pang of . . . he wasn't sure of what. Sympathy? Guilt?

“Did I already make the joke about how we should stop meeting like this?” Michael flexed against the stocks that clamped his hands to the table. “I can't remember if I did.”

“Uh . . . I don't think so.”

“Then consider it made. What can I do for the great Hero of the People today?”

Ed winced. “I was gonna ask how you were doing. If there was anything I could do to –”

“Help me face a lifetime behind bars? Thank you for the thought, but right now the best thing you can do is tell me what you want so this interview can be over as fast as we both want it to be.”

So that was how it was. Fine. Ed couldn't blame him. “I didn't find anything from those leads you gave me, about where you'd been. No gangs of Bradleyists jumping out of the trees or hiding under South City.”

“Perhaps you just didn't look hard enough.”

“Or maybe it's just been too long and now there's nothing to find. Either way, it was all dead-ends. No clues to how they found out about your grandma's watch, or how they tracked you down.”

Michael made no response. Or – that wasn't quite true. His mouth thinned, lips pressing together in a tight, sharp line.

“So now I need to know if there's anything you've been holding back.” Ed leant back with a nonchalance he did not feel. “Is there anywhere else to look before I give up and accept we'll never know?”

He waited, letting the silence stretch out uncomfortably. He could have pointed out that if they didn't get to the truth, they couldn't know the threat was really over. Or that if the Bradleyists Michael killed had friends out there somewhere, they might yet come seeking revenge. But Michael would already be thinking about all that. The question was whether he cared.

Tilting his head back, Michael examined the ceiling. “I already told you everywhere I've been these past few years. As much as I could remember. And you already took what was left of my research journal. Do you really think there's more I can tell you?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm asking. Though I guess you don't have to answer.”

“Not going to bring out the thumbscrews or branding irons?”

“I didn't have to before. After the trial, you're the one who asked to talk to me.”

“That was part of the deal my counsel made and you know it.”

Ed rested his chin on a fist. “Right.”

Michael's mouth did the flattening-to-a-line thing again. “I had to exchange all my secrets for my life, Edward. Do you know how humiliating that was?”

“I don't care, if it means stopping people in favour of endless war getting their hands on the secrets of an accelerator that nearly killed everyone in Central.”

“So I should let the State get their hands on it instead?”

“You already gave up your notes for your life.”

“Yes, but I know those won't let someone rebuild the watch.”

“Would you have refused the deal if they had?” Ed pushed his chair back before Michael could answer. “Never mind. Look, if you don't want to talk, you don't want to talk. I guess we'll just have to call the case closed and get on with our lives.”

“Wait.” Michael squeezed his eyes shut. “There . . . there is one place I didn't tell you about. It's possible, I suppose, that there's something there that could have . . . caused all this somehow.”

“Yeah? Where's that?”

“My grandmother's house.”

Ed sat down. “Shouldn't you have led with that?”

Visibly bracing himself, Michael opened his eyes. “My grandmother had a house out west. It's where she . . . raised me, for want of a better word. And yes, she had a lab there. But it's derelict. The whole thing.” His cheek twitched. “After she died . . . let's just say I suddenly had a lot of time to practice blowing things down and setting them on fire. She'd already destroyed most of her notes and books anyway. I wasn't fit to inherit them. I salvaged what I could but it wasn't enough to get the watch out of my side so . . . I burnt what I didn't need and kept the rest in my journal.”

“And that's why you didn't mention it? Because you thought you hadn't left anything behind for someone else to find?”

“I was sure I hadn't.”

“You never went back?”

“No. Even if I wanted to, some big company bought up the land. Fenced it off.”

Ed fiddled with his auto-mail wrist, testing the give in the joint. “The lab was definitely destroyed?”

“Oh yes. You have no idea how therapeutic it was to blow that place apart.”

“You're sure that was her  _ only _ lab?”

Michael hesitated. “It was the only one I ever knew about. It was at the back of the house, a kind of shed. Thick walls, thin roof, built to be easy to get in and out of if you couldn't move so well. She was an old woman by the time I arrived. I suppose she might have had somewhere else before then, more hidden away but . . . if that's the case, I don't know where it is.”

“OK . . . and that's really it? The last thing you were keeping back?”

“Will you believe me if I say yes?”

Ed snorted then shrugged. “Guess that depends on what I find. Tell me where this house is – was, whatever – and then . . .”

“What?”

“They let you read in this place?”

“Yes. I'm not allowed anything to write with, obviously, but . . . yes. I get to read.”

“Then you can let me know if there are any books I can get for you.”

Putting his head to the side, Michael regarded Ed curiously. “A prize for good behaviour?”

“Take it however the hell you want. Or say no. Your choice. I figure you get few enough of those.”

His smiled, just a little. “That's either really cruel or really kind. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don't mention it. Now where do I need to go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Wolff is the last significant original character I shall be introducing in this series. That said, after years of mentioning her, I'm finally giving Major Harriet Hawker some page time.
> 
> \- I'm aware that Ed, as a State Alchemist, should technically hold a rank equivalent to a major, rather than being an officer of that rank. However, it's always been a bit unclear to me how that works, so for the sake of succinctness (and tracking with e.g. what we see of Marcoh in Ishbal): as an alchemist on active military duty, he is addressed as Major Elric and treated according to that rank, but does not otherwise fit into the chain of command. That is, he wears a major's uniform but wouldn't be expected to take over if Mustang was out of action.
> 
> \- Since I haven't mentioned it before, Michael's surname references Jan Baptist van Helmont, chemist and disciple of Paracelsus. This may or may not be significant, given who Paracelsus was.
> 
> \- This chapter's song is 'Control' by Halsey, which might as well be the Helmont theme song.


	9. Paranoia By The Numbers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not having much of an internet presence out of a general dislike of interacting the world at large, I have few chances to signal boost anything. But since doing nothing isn't an option, let me use what little broadcast range this ridiculous quarantine-driven fic offers me to say: black lives matter. If you can support that cause, in any way, please do – https://blacklivesmatter.com/; https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/; https://twitter.com/ukblm.
> 
> Speaking to other white Brits (especially English ones), I'd also like to say: do not let yourselves be told this isn't our problem, or that 'we' solved it years ago, or that no one knew slavery and colonialism were wrong until Wilberforce came along. It has always been our problem. The abolition act was in many ways a sick joke, turning 'freed' slaves into indentured servants while compensating slave-owners. And there were always voices raised to condemn slavery, we just don't hear about them because they were not rich or aristocratic enough to make the history books.
> 
> We are fed a steady diet of national myths about what a wonderful country we are, but the truth is the British Empire was one of the foundations for modern racism across the globe, and its legacy is a poison in our society. The UK's wealth was built on the exploitation and theft. No amount of 'but WWII' should ever be allowed to obscure that. I've not got many links on hand to help you start unlearning the trite drivel the 'keep calm and carry on' brigade have sold us (though https://www.nybooks.com/daily/2020/06/06/what-black-america-means-to-europe/; https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2012/apr/18/britain-destroyed-records-colonial-crimes; https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16027967-cruel-britannia) but there are plenty of works out there (e.g. by Priyamvada Gopal, David Olusoga etc) that engage with the reality obscured by tea towels and Churchill quotes.
> 
> I am utterly delighted to see the people of Bristol sinking the statue of a slave trader, after years of having their democratic will overruled by a few rich gits who embody the legacy of the few rich gits who put the damn thing up in the first place. Here's to many more statues of racists going the same way – but far, far more importantly, to the toppling of everything they represent.

* * *

The trick to reading people was knowing there was no shortcut to it. True, some broadcast their intentions to the whole world. But just as many were opaque, impossible to understand at a glance. Working them out took . . . well, work. Patience. Slow, careful observation. Or failing that, research. Understanding where they had come from, where they were going, how they travelled between those two points.

People were rarely playing cards, one side to the world, the other hidden. More often they were jigsaw puzzles. The observer needed to get a sense of the edges of the picture before filling in the middle. And at all times, they needed to be aware of the gaps they had yet to fill in.

There were a frustrating number of gaps in Mustang's picture of Lieutenant Colonel Douglas Lockheed. On paper, the man was bland to the point of invisibility. Cardboard in Military blue. He seemed indifferent to advancing his rank or status, content instead to languish as a staff officer at South Command. Equally, though he maintained State Alchemist certification with meticulous research papers, that too seemed like an act of spinning in place. There was no sign he sought greater acclaim for his skills or had any particular purpose in honing them. If Mustang were still fighting his way up the Military's ladder, Lockheed would have registered as a non-factor, neither a useful ally nor a potential enemy.

And yet . . .

The South was not the East, a backwater to which nuisances were banished. It was the barrier between Amestris and one of her most persistent rivals. Aerugo was rich and powerful, with a strong army and stronger trade links to its neighbours. When tensions boiled over, and they frequently did, it always gave just as good as it got. Every glory hound straight out of officer training wanted an assignment at South Command, to get the chance to prove their mettle in the next border skirmish. Lockheed faced a constant influx of competitors, each with the ambition he apparently lacked.

Despite all of them, he remained resolutely permanent

That did not happen by chance. It might have happened by favouritism and certainly there was every indication that the brusque and perpetually pickled Major General De Haviland relied completely on his second-in-command. But boots did not lick themselves and, as Mustang knew well, even the closest working relationships could be pried apart with enough effort.

How Lockheed held on to his position was ultimately of little importance to Mustang. He was two ranks above the man and firmly ensconced in Central Command. But he would have preferred to know the whole story if he was going to have to rely on its author.

They met in the South Headquarters officers' library. Apparently this was Lockheed's preferred place to begin the day's work and he was not inclined to change that for any distinguished guests. The room's seclusion and the privacy afforded to its occupants were not lost on Mustang.

He took a seat in one of the armchairs while the colonel busied himself pouring tea. The shelves were high and better stocked than he would have expected. Alchemy texts were notable by their abundance. He wondered if anyone else ever came in here or if Lockheed monopolised the place.

The coffee table was one of those glass-case affairs, made to display an especially huge and elaborate book. It lay on a cushion, open at pages inscribed with strange and intricate diagrams.

“It's Britannic,” Lockheed said, handing Mustang a cup and saucer, “A genuine Charnock. Of little practical use, but rather interesting all the same. The ideas are quite poetic and there's a definite art to performing the transmutations described.”

“May I ask how you acquired it?”

“I wouldn't want to bore you with the details, sir. Let's just say antiquarianism is a hobby of mine.” Cradling a cup of his own, Lockheed took a seat opposite Mustang. “Now then, Brigadier General. What can I do for you today?”

Mustang tasted the tea, wishing it were coffee. “I wanted to thank you for being so accommodating to my task-force.”

“I can hardly refuse you the assistance owed to your rank.”

“Perhaps not. Still, I want to explain what's going on. This is your sector and I know how aggravating it can be when higher-ups simply impose upon local commands.”

“If you believe that would be appropriate, sir.” Lockheed settled more comfortably in his chair. “I won't deny being curious.”

Was it worth asking him what he had worked out already? Or would that be too clever by half? “It all started with a message I received from the Ishbalan government . . .”

It only took a few minutes to lay out the whole sordid tale. Aerugean arms found in the hands of Ishbalan extremists. Gunrunners tracked back to the East sector. A smuggling operation traced down to the southern border. All culminating in a midnight raid and the map Havoc found. He did not go into detail about how bad it would be if Ishbal were destabilised by internal struggles, nor did he stress how appalling it would look if it became widely known that Amestrians were helping arm the Scarred Men. And he definitely did not point out that if the arms were leaving Aerugo with official blessing, it was a diplomatic nightmare waiting to happen.

Whatever else he really was, the Razor Wind Alchemist was not a fool. There was nothing to be gained by treating him as one.

“I see why you wanted to handle this in person.” Lockheed swirled his tea around the cup. “You must think I have been incredibly lax in my duties. First all those dead State Alchemists and now this.”

Mustang arched an eyebrow. In his experience, even the good officers did not usually leap straight to self-blame when confronted with things that could conceivably be their fault. Now, was that suspicious or simply surprising? “Strictly speaking, they were not State Alchemists any longer. And under the circumstances, I don't think there's much you could have done about that. It was a police matter.”

“This, on the other hand, involves illicit arms being brought across the border for which I am responsible. I should certainly have caught this.” Narrowing his eyes, Lockheed raised his gaze a faction. “To the best of my knowledge, the past few months have seen no unusual activity. There was an Aerugean training exercise three weeks ago but that is normal for this time of year.”

“There are gaps in our ability to watch the border though, aren't there?”

“That depends on how you look at it. Those points are generally considered impassable.” The frown deepened. “Perhaps we need to refine that definition.”

“The map my men found appears to be of mine workings. I wanted to get your help in identifying the exact location.”

“A mine?” Lockheed abruptly put his cup and saucer down on the table. “There are no mines on the border itself. The nearest one is at least five or six kilometres to the north. A tunnel across that distance is not impossible.”

“To a corresponding mine in Aerugo?”

“They've never sunk pits that close.”

“Regardless, there's no context for the map. I assume we'll have to compare it to every mine on your records to track it down.”

“Of course.” Lockheed's fingers drummed against the arms of his chair. “This is a curious kind of chase you have been on, if you don't mind me saying.”

It was not a challenge, That, it seemed, was not the lieutenant colonel's style. And it was not as if Mustang disagreed with the assessment. “You think so?”

“How did all this come to light in the first place? Do you know how the Ishbalan government discovered these arms?”

“I know exactly how. The weapons were found in a camp belonging to the Scarred Men along with a number of bodies and the remains fire. Rather fortunate for the sake of continued peace.”

“Very. How did these Scarred Men die?”

“Bullets. Though if you mean, who fired them, that remains a mystery. The current favourite explanation is some kind of internal squabble.”

“Plausible, I suppose.” Another thing to note: Lockheed could pronounce 'plausible' as 'pull the other one, it goes ding'. “May I ask, sir . . . did the other clues fall into place with the same fortuitousness?”

Mustang put his tea down, perfectly opposite Lockheed's. He examined the back of his hand, scrutinised his nails. “Yes, I should say they did.”

As it were trail of breadcrumbs, rather than the indistinct traces of people covering their tracks.

Habit made Mustang keep that thought to himself around his team. He needed them focused on the hunt, not second-guessing every move. That was his job. Admitting the truth to a comparative stranger was a calculated risk. Or maybe simply a release valve, in the absence of Fullmetal, who would otherwise have been the obvious one to bring into his confidence.

Lockheed put a finger to his lips and resumed his scrutiny of the coffee table. He stayed silent for about ten seconds. Then: “I will extract the relevant documentation for all the South Sector mines immediately. I will also provide the border guard reports for the past year for your review. You may see something in them that I did not. Then I will arrange for a detachment of my best men to be placed at your disposal. I assume you will want to rely primarily on the task-force you brought with you, but it will not hurt to have extra back-up ready to go.” He looked up. “If that is acceptable to you, sir. I am sure the Major General will not object.”

That last part was likely a lie. Based on past experience, De Haviland would object quite strongly and at volume. And then, Mustang suspected, Lockheed would calmly cut through the bluster and convince him to sign off on it anyway.

He remembered being that person to General Grumman, once upon a time. The dynamic was different. The tactics, likewise. Yet there was a point of kinship there all the same, a shared understanding of what it took to get the job done.

A potential trap.

It was always easier to deal with obvious competitors. Grand. Archer. Fiat. Men who reacted to the challenge he presented in kind, raising the stakes and upping their game. The ones to watch out for were those who fell in step with him, echoing back his own intentions until they were in the perfect position to slide in the knife.

What was it like to live his life without that lens of calculated paranoia? There had been a time when he had, surely, but it was frustratingly hard to recall. For so long, _everyone else is out to get you_ might as well have been his personal mantra.

Actually, no. _You are out get everyone else_ would be far more accurate.

“That is most acceptable,” he said to Lockheed, “Please pass on my gratitude to the Major General for his indulgence. And please accept my thanks for your assistance with this matter.”

The lieutenant colonel favoured him with a slow blink. “None required, sir. I am simply doing my job.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Lions or tigers?” Hawkeye asked as Mustang entered the borrowed office.

She might have been offering a suggestion to Breda, who was apparently engrossed in the South City Times puzzle page. Except Breda did the chess problems, not the cryptic crossword.

“Sounds like a clue that could go either way.” Mustang walked down the room to the desk he had co-opted. “You'd better clear some space. We'll soon be taking delivery of a lot of reports and mine-related paperwork.”

“A successful meeting, then, sir?”

“Yes Captain, I believe so. The Lieutenant Colonel has even promised to arrange some extra troops to be placed at our disposal.”

Hawkeye did not raise her eyebrows. She did not do a double-take. Her reply was as non-committal as a statement about the weather. “That is good of him.”

“I thought so.” Picking up one of the handwritten notes that she had left for him on the desk, he turned so that he could read it in the light from the window. Then he turned back. “Second Lieutenant, why are you here and not down in the cells taking statements like I ordered?”

Breda made one last adjustment to whatever solution he was working on and folded the newspaper neatly in half. “Because it was a waste of time. They aren't talking and I don't think that's gonna change.”

“Loyalty to each other?”

“More like stubbornness and a big old 'fuck you' to the law.”

“So they're not being scared into silence?”

“Didn't seem that way. Falman's gone to share their photographs with the South City Police, see if they have any records that'd be useful.”

“Good. We'll have to release them to the civilian authorities soon anyway.”

“Technically, since this is a matter of national security, we can continue to hold them indefinitely,” Hawkeye said.

“True. But we won't.” Because if they did not favour morality over the letter of the law, they had no right being in the game. “I think I would be more comfortable if the prisoners were off this base anyway. Any word from Havoc?”

“No sir. But Sergeant Fuery put through a call from Central Command. He says, mission accomplished.”

Mustang allowed himself a satisfied smile. “If Fullmetal calls, I'm not here.”

“Was it entirely fair to spring the transfer without consulting him first?”

“Absolutely not.” He scanned the note, not really taking in the words. “This isn't how I planned on everything unfolding. If the information about last night's export drive hadn't come through when it did, I'd be at Headquarters right now letting Ed shout himself hoarse.”

“Like he wouldn't have talked himself into it in five minutes anyway,” Breda said, chewing the end of his pencil, “Fighting monsters and getting first dibs on all the forbidden alchemy crap? The job's practically spelt E-L-R-I-C.”

“It's not a lifestyle either Edward or Alphonse undertook by choice.” There was a new edge in Hawkeye's tone.

“And if he decides this is more than he's willing to put up with, I'll adjust accordingly.” Mustang gave up on pretending to read. “But I wouldn't give him a task I didn't think he was capable of completing. I need _someone_ to pull the AOD into something useful and he's the best option.”

Strike that. The way things stood, Ed was the _only_ option. Contingencies existed but they were last resorts, the kind of gamble only to be taken all else failed. He reached up to adjust his eyepatch and silently prayed to the gods of fools and liars that his faith in Fullmetal would be rewarded.

Breda heaved himself out of his chair. “If we're gonna be sifting through papers for the rest of the day, I'll go and get us a proper coffee-pot sent up.”

“Just make sure it's a self-heating one. I'm not playing water-heater for you slobs again.”

“Aw. Don't worry, General, we still love you anyway.”

As he sauntered out, Hawkeye came up beside Mustang, a clipboard in hand. She nodded at the note he was still holding. “That was just a brief proposal on how we should go about accessing South City's municipal records in the event there were any problems getting into those held here. I'd recommend doing that anyway if we draw a blank with the maps.”

“Checking for discrepancies. Good idea. And sorry. All my attention seems to be turned inward this morning.”

“I assumed it was either that or we finally needed to get you a pair of glasses.”

“Hey, I'm not that old yet! Anyway, a monocle would be more budget conscious.”

“ _With_ the eyepatch?” Her left eyebrow lifted a couple of millimetres.

“I'm deeply offended that you don't think I could carry it off.”

“May I remind you of the time Breda persuaded everyone on the third floor to wear eyepatches of their own to show 'solidarity' with you?”

Did he ever. “I seem to remember you taking part as well.”

“It would have been rude not to.”

“It was a better look on you than me.”

She bounced the clipboard against the side of her leg. “Now consider what might result from you adopting a monocle as well.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “There _will_ be top hats.”

There would be, wouldn't there? He shuddered. “All right, point taken. Shall we get to work?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They found the matching map halfway through the morning, just after Havoc came back empty-handed from the warehouse. Specifically Hawkeye found it, in the files for a disused iron mine a little under a day's travel from South City. Further west than Mustang would have expected, almost directly south from Fotcett.

The mine dated from when that whole area had been contested territory, eventually becoming exhausted and being abandoned shortly before the otherworldly attack on Central. The land was state-owned but very far down the list for repurposing. As far as the records were concerned, the only things moving down there should have been whatever wildlife moved in after the miners left.

“We checked the treads on all the trucks near that warehouse,” Havoc said, peering over Breda's shoulder, “There was plenty of mud caked on 'em. Could well of come from terrain like that.”

“We'd be able to match the treads to any tracks at the scene anyway.” Breda had been wearing the same frown since the map turned up. “Remote location. No line of sight with any of the local towns or roads. Pretty defensible by the look of it. 'Bout four and a half kilometres from the border?”

“Closer to five and a half,” Hawkeye corrected, “The border crosses through the hills in that region, though there is a gorge on the Aerugean side that might be a convenient exit point for a tunnel.”

“Uh huh. S'at possible, digging a tunnel that far?”

“That type of mine would mainly use adits and drifts to access the mineral beds,” said Lieutenant Dakota. Then, seeing the blank looks on everyone else's faces, he continued, “Ah, horizontal shafts. So there would be existing tunnels going in the right direction.” They continued to stare at him. “I grew up in a mining town.”

“And I guess you could always dig further with alchemy, right, sir?”

Mustang tapped his chin, looking from Breda to the maps, doing as much as he could of the distance and mass calculations in his head. Fullmetal would no doubt have given a definite answer on the plausibility of such an undertaking. He had to make do with a best guess. “Definitely not without knowing what you were doing. It's always possible to make a tunnel with alchemy. Making sure it stays up is another matter entirely.”

“Doing it manually would have the same risks.”

“Out with it, Breda. What's got you looking like you expect Hayate to jump out from behind the radio at any moment?”

Breda pulled a face then became serious again. “Whichever way you cut it, this is all a heck of a lot of effort to get a few small-arms into Ishbal.”

The silence that greeted this assessment made it clear that everyone else agreed. Deciding to play devil's advocate, Mustang said, “The sector's in good hands. Lockheed is very thorough. Getting over the border undetected would _require_ a heck of a lot of effort.”

“Yeah, but would it be worth it?” Havoc scratched his neck. “Who the hell's profiting from all this?”

“The destabilisation of Ishbal would –”

“With respect, boss, we all know what it would mean. But if Aerugo wanted to help the Scarred Men, they could have just snuck the arms around by the desert like they did during the war. This . . .” He waved at the map, at the documents Hawkeye was holding, everything spread out across the office. “This is a trail marked 'evil plot, this way for the mastermind'. And it stinks.”

“Funny. Lockheed said something similar.”

“I think we've all been thinking it for a while.” Hawkeye's words were not quite a rebuke, but Mustang still decided that it was time to stop being coy.

“Fine. So it might be an obvious trap. Or it might just be someone's really over-complicated way of getting back at Amestris for the last southern border war. Does anybody have any idea how to tell the difference without raiding this mine and seeing what we find?”

Everyone looked at everyone else. Breda's frown deepened. Havoc exhaled and shook his head. Dakota fiddled with his glasses. Hawkeye's mouth tightened. No one said anything.

“That's what I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed appears, as previously, by kind permission of The_Dancing_Walrus. They invented him for a story that never got finished and allowed me to introduce him into Life After Equivalence as a sort of what-if.  
> \- Completely unintentionally, my vision for Lockheed's career meshes perfectly with Kimblee's comment that he used to be stationed at South Headquarters. Since he was sent to Ishbal and subsequently went to prison, there was presumably a vacancy for a State Alchemist at South Command . . .  
> \- I did not grow up in a mining town (it was a brewing town), so apologies for any misuse of mining terms that may occur in this plot thread.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Trouble Is a Friend' by Lenka because . . . well, you listen to the lyrics and tell me they don't fit this motley band of conspirators.


	10. Distractions And Diversions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it probably shouldn't need to be stated that my note about Black Lives Matter from last week still applies this week and next week and basically until real change is effected. I can certainly see here in the UK that the news cycle is moving rapidly on, but please don't let that fool you into assuming everything's gone away.
> 
> On a related note, the government over here has decided (on the quiet) that it would quite like to go full-on Section 28 again and is basically going to ignore the 70% of people who responded to their consultation in favour of reforming the UK's mean-spirited joke of a gender recognition act to allow trans people to have their gender easily recognised in law. Given the Tories' track record, I assume that we are heading for measures aimed at forcing trans people out of public life, with a side of 'let's make it open season on anyone who doesn't fit traditional gender norms'.
> 
> We've had welcome proof this week that the government can make a U-turn on their miserable policies with enough of a shove. If you're in a position to write to them ASAP, please do: [https://gra.good.do/trusstme/trusstme/](https://gra.good.do/trusstme/trusstme) (I found out about this via the charity <http://genderedintelligence.co.uk/>). I am ashamed to say I'm not aware of any UK-based charities working specifically at the intersection of trans people and race, but if you are, please let me know because I would really like to support them.
> 
> Apologies in advance, by the way, if this chapter is less well proofed than previous ones. The above and a few other things has left me too angry to concentrate enough for a third read through.

The trudge back to Headquarters gave Ed time to think, for which he resented it every step of the way.

What was it Michael had said about his grandmother, back in the sewers after everything went to hell? 'Not crazy, evil.' Then he'd lifted up his shirt to show Ed the watch-chain grafted into his side.

His own grandmother had done that to him. Taken her masterpiece and chained it to the spine of her one remaining relative. Forced her legacy upon him to make sure it would be used. Say what you liked about Hohenheim, at least he'd never been quite that shitty to Ed and Al.

No. He'd just murdered thousands of strangers so that he could live forever.

What the fuck was Ed supposed to feel about that? Years of turning it over and over and he still didn't have a damned clue. He knew what he  _ did _ feel. Seething resentment at the old bastard for abandoning his family and leaving Trisha Elric to die alone, tempered by conflicting memories of past affection and of the resolve with which Hohenheim had closed Envy's jaws upon himself. The emotions of a child reacting against his absent father bumping up against those of a teenager trying to parse his dad's attempts to make up for not being there.

Normal things, really. Magnified by the context. But not big on their own. Or so Ed sometimes tricked himself into believing. Watching your dad commit suicide by means of your half-brother was the kind of shit most people took a lifetime to process, and yes, that image certainly showed up in his nightmares with the regularity it deserved. It was just – there were so many other images vying with it. Watching his own father get eaten by a dragon and burn away into light was just another notch on the dial.

Some days, he wasn't sure he even hated Hohenheim any more. Not the way that Michael hated his grandmother, so much that it blazed from his wintery eyes. And Ed should have done. He should have hated the old bastard just as ferociously. More so.

Hohenheim of Light killed an entire city to forge the Philosopher's Stone and buried what was left like so much dirt kicked under a carpet. There was no forgiving that. There was no  _ understanding his motivation _ or  _ giving him the benefit of the doubt _ . There was no balancing it with a few small kindnesses. There just wasn't.

The thing was, that was a moral stand that came centuries too late to be visceral and real. Every time Ed tried to summon it to the forefront of his mind, he would remember gentle, caring hands soothing his fever in a German attic and his heart would twist with something that just wasn't compatible with the fury in his head.

He kept meaning to ask Edward more about what Hohenheim had been like in the years before Ed crashed back into his exile. But talking to Edward was hard, even with their tentative peace accord. Ed hated the idea of causing his doppelgänger any more pain so much that it was impossible to sit down comfortably with him.

And anyway, even if he knew more details of how Hohenheim tried to assuage his guilt, what would that prove? What would that mean?

Ed kicked at the pavement as he waited for a gap in the traffic outside the Central Library and considered death. Not dying, though hey, there was another of his favourite 'nightmares drawn from personal experience'. The act of inflicting death on others.

The first time he killed someone had been an accident. It hadn't even really registered at the time that he was responsible for Majhal's death. After all, he hadn't  _ meant _ to kill him. It had just been a consequence of trying to survive. And perhaps because of that or because the enormity of what he'd done was too much for a twelve-year-old to process, he'd convinced himself that it wasn't his fault. Just like he convinced himself that fear and anger meant he didn't have to think about how close he'd come to killing Barry the Chopper or Shou Tucker. Hell, after the Slicer Brothers and Lab Five, he began to believe he wasn't actually  _ capable _ of intentional murder. That he'd never be able to look someone in the eye and take away their life.

Then a homunculus with a razor-toothed smile showed him just how naïve he was being.

Of course he hadn't meant to kill Greed either. He could make that argument easily, if he wanted to: he'd gone all out in that fight precisely because he assumed his enemy would just get back up again afterwards. Why should he have thought any different at the time? How could he have known?

But that was the trick, wasn't it? The enemy always got back up again until they didn't. Force was always reasonable while the other side kept swinging. And if you wanted to win the fight . . .

Nothing short of murder would have stopped Sloth from killing him. Even now, with so much hindsight, Ed did not know how he could have gotten out of that mess alive without boiling her away. The same logic that he'd applied to Majhal. Only he'd grown up too much for it to salve anything. He understood too well what it was he'd done. What he was  _ actually _ capable of doing.

He was an alchemist. A master of matter and energy. If he wanted, he could blow everyone around him into clouds of petals and ash. The equations actually formed in his head as he thought about it. It would be easy. Mechanically. Just another transmutation.

Only . . .

Inflicting death taught him that he could do it, not that it was easy for him to do. The very idea revolted him. Viscerally. Oh, he knew that in the heat of the moment, if he was angry enough, backed into a tight enough corner, then he could definitely do it again. He wasn't dumb. He didn't believe that just being disgusted by something meant he'd magically not do it. But that added to the horror, kept the feedback loop going strong. Gave him something to cling to, like a crutch that could break at any minute. You couldn't rely on it all the time, but you were damn happy it was there.

The net result is that something shorted out in Ed's brain when he tried to conceptualise murdering an entire city and being . . .  _ fine _ with that.

He knew what being a killer did to people. It had split Mustang like a dropped egg, driven Marcoh half-mad, stripped Scar down to a shell of someone who once cared, grown ice inside Michael's broken heart. Some nights it left Ed holding on to Winry like she was the only rock in a storm and some days he was afraid to ever touch her again.

Sure, there were always the likes of Kimblee or Envy who actually got off on ending other people's lives. But even that was – they  _ felt _ it. They revelled in it. The act itself mattered to them, as something to savoured. That was twisted as all shit but – he almost got it. Feeling strong. Feeling powerful. Holding others in your fist.

Hohenheim could never have met a quarter of the people he killed on that one night, so long ago. Had they even mattered to him? Had he even thought about them as  _ people _ ? Or had he reduced them down to ingredients in his head long before he even activated the array?

Ed was revolted by the idea of killing someone again. He was  _ afraid _ of losing the ability to see someone else as a person. 

And he did not know where to start with the idea that his dad could coolly harvest thousands of souls and still have the capacity to patiently help his ungrateful runt of a son learn how to walk for the third time.

Did he actually envy Michael for having all the pain and none of the conflicting good memories? That seemed like it would be so much simpler. So much easier to deal with and move past.

Then again, for all he knew, Michael spent his time wishing for a single kind word amid all the crap that had been heaped upon him.

The grass was always greener, wasn't it?

  
  


* * *

  
  


Coming back to his new office and the job he hadn't asked for did not particularly lift Ed's mood. He caught himself about to snap at Sheska –  _ Sheska _ , for fuck's sake! – when he asked for a map of the land around West City and she said the latest maps hadn't arrived from stores yet. Luckily for her nerves and his self-respect, he managed to force the irritation into a smile and ask where would be best to borrow one from.

He spent the trip to and from the records office repeating chemical formulae until they blotted everything else out in a calming haze of numbers and symbols.

Sheska was not there when he opened the AOD door again. Neither was Bloch.

“They're on lunch break,” Wolff told him. She was sitting at the bench, a small book open in front of her. Her eyes did not leave the page as he walked past to put three rolled-up maps down on his desk.

_ His desk _ . He pulled out the chair and sat down. At least no one had tried doing something hilarious with the height adjustment on the furniture. That was probably beneath Mustang's much-vaunted dignity, though he wouldn't have put it past Breda or Havoc. Lucky for him Fuery had drawn the short straw, really.

He blew out his cheeks and reached for the first of the maps. West City was a bit of a mystery to him. He'd never actually needed to go there before, so all he knew was a vague location and the few State-mandated facts he could remember from school. An industrial centre, grown fat off the spoils of war with Creta, most of its output going east to the Central Sector or north, to feed war against Drachma. Although – that might not be true any more. The defences still existed but with new policies intended to keep peace with Amestris' neighbours . . .

Could you just declare peace and be done with it? How did the Drachmans feel about that? Presumably they'd signed the treaties. Presumably there  _ had _ been treaties. Ed assumed that you didn't just end wars by getting the umpire to shout 'stop' or whatever.

He wondered how badly Olivier Mira Armstrong had taken it and was distracted from an already pretty long tangent by the image of an Assembly official having to sneak their way up to the border without anyone from Briggs Fort noticing. Did they make pinstripe suits in winter camouflage?

If he'd been on his own, that would have been the point he let his forehead collide with the top of his desk, in the vain hope the impact would get his brain back on the right track. Instead, remembering he wasn't provided another path for it to run down.

Wolff was still reading quietly. If that had been him, he would not have been pleased with anyone interrupting. On the other hand, they'd barely exchanged two words since she'd arrived and he was being a pretty crappy boss not to have welcomed her more sincerely.

Side note: was he her boss? Was that what Mustang had meant about seniority or where they supposed to run this place jointly?

She looked up when he cleared his throat. He didn't do it very loudly, so apparently she wasn't someone who ignored any request for attention below a full brass band ( _ like I do _ , added some treacherously honest part of his mind). Her stare was as flinty as before, but on consideration, Ed decided he wasn't getting the 'will skin you at six paces' vibe familiar from certain northern-based Major Generals who should remain nameless. Perhaps this was simply how Wolff looked at everyone.

“We, err, didn't really do proper introductions earlier,” he began uncertainly, “I should have spoken to you before racing off to the prison . . .”

“Not a problem, Major Elric. I assume that was part of an ongoing investigation?”

“Yeah. Which I guess makes it the business of this division now . . .” Was he allowed to keep going with stuff he'd been working on before? Must be. Mustang would have left instructions if that weren't the case.

“You don't sound sure about that.”

“Yeah, well. You ever worked for General Mustang before?”

“I haven't had the honour.”

It would be really unprofessional to giggle at that.  _ Really unprofessional _ . “Let's just say that he likes blind-siding people. Pretty sure it's mostly habit at this point but . . . I didn't get much warning that I'd be getting this job today. Or any, actually.”

“Oh.” Was that disappointment, showing briefly through the impassiveness? “So you did not request my assignment here?”

“Honestly, I didn't even know about it until you showed up at the door.”

“Oh,” Wolff repeated.

“Yeah, sorry. I think he was afraid I'd skip town if I knew what was going on.” He did his best to signal this was a joke. Getting reported for contemplating desertion would not be the start of a good working relationship. “So . . . what'd you do to get on the Alchemy Programme?”

Which, he belatedly realised, was about the worst ice-breaker he could have tired, given that potential answers included 'created monsters', 'invented a new and inventive way to make people explode' and 'set fire to more stuff than ever needed burning down.'

But if Wolff was put out, she did not show it. “My specialty is transmuting glass under field conditions.”

Ed gave an appreciative whistle. “That's tricky work outside a lab.”

“Apparently my skills were sufficient to impress the Führer.” She closed her book and folded her hands in front of her. “I was the last State Alchemist appointed before he fell.”

Now it was his turn to go, “Oh.” He reached out for one of the maps, just to have something to do during the awkward silence. “Was that . . . a problem for you?”

“Not particularly. It just left me a bit underemployed.”

“Didn't being that new to the programme mean you were needed to take over from one of the alchemists who got thrown out?”

“I signed up to be a combat alchemist. There wasn't much call for that after everything changed.”

Probably not, and Ed didn't imagine there would be much cause for one here either. Unless this was some subtle hint about how Mustang expected the job to go with Ed in charge, which . . . honestly, fair enough. “So what have you been doing instead?”

“Completing my officer's training and fulfilling my duties as a major. Got stationed in the South for a while, then transferred back to Central.”

“So not research?”

“When I could.” For the first time since they'd started having a conversation, Wolff lowered her gaze. “Which was less often than I'd have liked. That's one of the reasons I accepted the Brigadier General's invitation to join this division.”

“What are the others?” Ed started to ask, then cut himself off, “Actually – look, I can't just sit here shooting questions at you. You must have things you want to ask me.”

If he'd blinked at the wrong moment, he might have missed her smirk, there and gone in a split-second. “Certainly. What's this case you're working on?”

All right then.

He laid out the maps while he explained, bringing them over to the bench for the extra space. Locating the Helmont estate took a while, mainly thanks to the massive engineering works that covered a dozen square kilometres to the north of the city. It must have been built after Michael left since it had blotted out several of the roads he'd told Ed to follow.

Despite that, Ed was eventually able to draw a ring around a small marker indicating derelict buildings, a little way inside the south-eastern corner of the perimeter fence.

“We can presumably get a warrant to search the land,” Wolff said, “Shouldn't be any difficulty – that complex primarily serves the Military. Vehicle manufacture, I think.”

“Or,” Ed suggested evenly, “I could just sneak in and take a look around.”

“That . . . is an alternative, certainly.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “If the Bradleyists did get a clue about the watch from that house, it's been sitting on the factory's land for several years at this point.”

“Meaning whoever discovered the information could well have worked there.”

“Or still work there. Either way, better to get a look at the house _before_ we start stirring anything up.”

Wolff gave him the hard stare again. “Does Brigadier General Mustang approve of this cavalier attitude to legal niceties?”

“General Mustang's the kinda guy who'd break into you house, find every bit of incriminating information he can get his hands on, commit it all to memory, leave everything exactly as he found it, then blackmail you into buying him coffee for a month afterwards. Besides, according to the regulations I checked this morning, I'm empowered to pursue any and all ends in securing alchemic threats to the state. Hooray for overreaching Military powers, I guess.”

“Hardly overreaching given the scale of the danger some of those threats pose.”

“Point is, I'm not planning on anyone knowing I've been there, and if I find anything, I can just roll up at the main gate with a warrant later. No need to bother them if there's nothing there, right?”

He was not sure if the way the corners of Wolff's eyes pinched up meant she was amused by this obvious bullshit or just pissed off at it. “You're clearly a keen student of the Brigadier General's methods.”

“Please don't ever tell him you think that.”

Her mouth quirked to the side. “Your argument makes sense. When do we leave?”

“Sooner the better. I figured I can get the express tomorrow – wait, we?”

“I'm your 'field support', am I not?”

“Errr . . . look, if I'm sneaking in, it'd be better if I went in on my own –”

“Forgive me, Major Elric. It's hard to see with all the hair but I assume you do not, in fact, have eyes in the back of your head?”

“That's –” A good point. “Fine. But if you're coming, you'd better not spend the whole time complaining about the way I operate.”

“Likewise.”

Ed scowled at the map, crunching down the impulse to find a way of sneaking off west on his own anyway. An extra pair of eyes would be useful and not just to watch his back. He'd couldn't count the times that Al had pointed out something he'd missed in the past. Of the available options, a qualified State Alchemist was definitely the best one to help explore the hypothetical lair of Anna 'Black Fire' Helmont.

And hey, it wasn't like _every_ time he'd trusted someone outside of his immediate family had ended in complete disaster, was it?

“Did Bloch get us an up-to-date railway timetable yet?”

Wordlessly, Wolff dug inside her jacket and produced a folded pamphlet.

“You just carry that around with you?”

“Habit I got into while I was moving between posts a lot.”

“You might want to keep it up.”

“So I'm beginning to suspect.”

“Right, let's see – huh. Should have asked. What name did they give you? When you passed the exam?”

Another lightning smirk. “The Obsidian Alchemist.”

He gave her a long, hard stare of his own. “They just pick the first fucking thing that comes into their head, don't they?”

“Could have been worse. Who'd want to be the 'Glass Alchemist'?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You're leaving _again_?! You've only been back five minutes!”

Ed made to cover his head, in anticipation of the wrenches he was pretty sure would not actually get thrown his way. “I know, I know! Something came up!”

Winry's shoulders slumped and she put down the motor she had been tinkering with when he came in. She grabbed a cloth to clean the oil from her hands, then came around the counter to hug him.

He patted the small of her back. “I'm sorry. It should only be a few days. Just need to check something out in West City.”

“This still about Michael's watch?”

“Yeah. I visited him today.”

Letting go, she moved back so she could see his face. “Is he . . . doing OK?”

Ed wiggled his head side to side. “I said I'd get him some books. He gave me one last lead and that's what I'm going to check out.”

“You think it'll come to anything?” By which she meant, _is this going to spiral off into some dumb chase or country-spanning rescue mission?_

“Dunno. Guess I'll find out.”

Her fingertips brushed the collar of his uniform jacket, moved across to the epaulette. Her mouth twisted with the effort of not saying something. Then she jerked her chin towards the consultation room. “Come on. I'd better give your auto-mail a tune-up before you go.”

“Hey, Rockbell? Did you say the _blue_ tin – oh, hey.” Doddie stopped on the threshold of the back room. “Didn't hear you . . . not interrupting, am I?”

“Not really.” Winry smiled at him. “Want to help me make sure Ed's arm and leg are working properly?”

Ed glared past her ear, thinking negative thoughts. Doddie took the hint. “No, err, that's OK. I might actually head out and, you know, see what the night-life's like in the big city.”

“I thought you didn't bring any money?”

“Here.” Ed dug out a few folded notes and a handful of small change. “My treat. Have fun.”

“There are nicer ways to chase someone off,” Winry said, when Doddie was safely out of the way and Ed was busy taking off his uniform so that she could inspect his limbs.

He paused, halfway through folding up his trousers, cavalry skirt and all. “Nicer than giving him cash and telling him to go get drunk?”

“I am totally going to blame you if he staggers back singing at three in the morning.”

“You saying that a few hours alone together won't be worth it?”

“Let me guess: you're always the one being carried home after a night on the town, not the one doing the carrying?”

Dropping the trousers on a stool with his jacket, he frowned at her. “You saying I'm a lightweight?”

“Ed, you are _literally_ a lightweight.”

No arguing with that. He hiked up his tank-top, again stopping halfway through when he noticed the way Winry was looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing much.”

“If this is building up to a short joke . . .”

“Oh, trust me. It's not.”

“Uh huh.” He finished undressing and turned to her, hands on his hips. “OK, where do you want me?”

Winry went bright red, either because she was mortified or because she was trying not to burst out laughing. Ed replayed what he'd just said and experienced much the same feeling.

“Not like that! Geez, just where should I sit so you can look at the auto-mail!”

“You sure? I mean, you did make sure we were all alone.” It should not have been possible to twirl a screwdriver suggestively but if anyone was going to manage it . . .

“Well, yeah, but I thought we'd get the uncomfortable medical stuff out the way first! Sheesh!”

“OK, OK. Here.” She patted one of the chairs. “Sit down and tell me about your day or something while I make sure you're not gonna bust my masterpieces the first chance you get.”

“I've not done anything seriously bad to them since you installed them,” he grumbled, doing as he was told and stretching his right arm out on the examination table next to the chair.

“And don't think I don't appreciate that, but let's keep it that way, huh?” Settling down next to him, she started to unbolt his forearm guard. “You know, I've been thinking about upping the carbon-fibre content in the next version. There's this new forging technique I've read about that should make the parts even stronger. You'll get twice the durability for the same weight.”

“I'm not sure I can afford to pay you for another upgrade so soon . . .”

“Oh, don't worry about that. I'd need to try the technique out anyway and you're the most convenient test subject. Hmm. I can probably improve this wiring too. I put in a lot of redundancy that might not actually be necessary. If I was able to protect the core sections a bit more . . .”

Ed relaxed and let Winry's rambling commentary keep his mind off the twinges shooting up through his shoulder. He could have interrupted, done as she said and described the day he'd had. But this was better.

All the dark thoughts and complications could take the evening off. He'd get back to them in the morning. For tonight, he was going to savour the time he got to spend with this amazing person beside him and make-believe that he deserved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a fair bit more involved re Ed's self-reflection than originally planned, but I'm not saying it isn't going to be relevant.
> 
> Wolff's been on the drawing board since I first had the idea for Ed's future career. She was going to be joined by Colonel Royce's daughter, who'd have been the first State Alchemist appointed after Bradley fell, but in the end, that seemed like overkill.
> 
> This chapter's song should probably be something depressing, but let's go with 'The Road You Didn't Take' by Stornaway.


	11. Blooming For Beginners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should probably preface this with a 'sexual content' warning? It's nothing explicit, but it's a slight step up from anything I've put in previously. Which also means I am not all that used to writing it and . . . yeah. Anyway, thought I should say!

Three days and nothing had gone horribly wrong. It was as good an excuse as any for a party.

Al had never met people quite as hungry for knowledge as the Ishbalan students. They were attentive and focused in a way that was rare even amongst the League membership, and it made him wish endlessly that he could do more for them. Standing next to stocky, walnut-skinned Dr Drake, listening to him describe medical techniques with a surety built on decades of experience, he felt hopelessly uneducated by comparison. Like Russell, he found himself questioning what he could possibly contribute alongside someone so much better qualified.

The answer, as he kept reminding himself, was the historical context showing how those techniques had or had not escaped the taint of alchemy. To the Ishbalans, that was vital information and since Al spent most of his teenage years soaking up every fact going about human-focused alchemy, it was something he was uniquely placed to talk about.

Still. It felt like he was there to be a bouncer, denying information entry into the discussion because it was not wearing the right clothes, rather than offering something more constructive.

At least he got to learn things along the way. Ishbalan pharmacy was a masterclass in what, back home, was patronisingly termed 'traditional medicine'. He was kind of in awe of what its practitioners could achieve, all without alchemy and often without any modern equipment whatsoever. Whatever was going on in the botanical sessions affected Russell in much the same way. Every time Al saw him, he was surrounded by a crowd of determined young women, excitedly bouncing ideas around with them, no trace of his earlier nerves.

That made Al grin. So did spending more time with Rick, which he got to do a lot since the chemists were barely a half-step away from the pharmacy tradition themselves. Rick was the one who introduced him to  _ docan _ Cato, a severe man whose face was tattooed with a broken circle – the same mark worn by the exile at the camp in Kishua, the one denoting a heretic. Nobody remarked on this, and though all the students seemed mildly terrified of the man, everyone else treated him quite normally. Al swallowed a thousand questions and forced himself not to stare.

He managed no such restraint when meeting Leo again. Rick's brother was still skinny, but the fragile brashness that Al remembered had given way to a relaxed, grown-up confidence. He talked animatedly about working as a builder and gushed shamelessly over his fiance. Chiara was as tall and thin as Leo was, with curls of black hair tumbling down from her red headscarf. She looked like she might fold under the weight of the praise he heaped upon her, but Al could see the adoration in her eyes and suspected that she'd be just as voluble given half a chance.

She didn't say much as they ate lunch together. She kept avoiding Al's gaze, looking away when he glanced at her. Another thousand questions he shouldn't ask bubbled up. He made his excuses as soon as he could, not wanting to stay longer and make her more uncomfortable.

He'd have been mulling that encounter over for the rest of the day if Rufina hadn't picked the exact moment he got inside the hostel to announce that a feast and dance would be held that night to celebrate the alliance between fellow seekers of truth. It was going to be great, she assured them, over Dr Boardman's anxious protests. They couldn't come all this way and not sample traditional Ishbalan hospitality, could they?

Al smiled a bit ruefully to himself and wondered what Rufina would do if it all dissolved into the same discomfort that had hung between him and Chaira, full of unspoken recriminations and impossibly inadequate apologies.

Then again, going by his experience of socialising with the students so far, it was far more likely to dissolve into a lot of involved scientific discussions and no one would remember to join in with the dancing.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He needn't have worried. From the first note, it was clear the musicians were not interested in being background noise to talk about refining metals or cultivating delicate trees. They were there to get people on their feet and anyone who didn't want to be carried along by the beat had best get out of the way. To Al's surprise, most of the Amestrians stayed anyway. Even Dr Boardman allowed Rufina to pull her into an energetic jig.

Ishbalan dancing reminded him of festivals back in Risenbool, all about revelling in friendship and company, rather than finding one person you wanted to get really close to. Though he guessed those weren't mutually exclusive, given how enthusiastically some of the students took to the floor.

He smothered a laugh when he saw Russell pulled out there by one of those determined botanists. His face was beetroot, which quickly faded as he concentrated furiously on getting the steps right.

Noah would have loved every minute. Al hoped she was enjoying her trip. He wished he could be with her as she explored his home country. Come to think of it, she was probably seeing bits of it he never had. All in the company of –

It was a good thing he'd moved to a quieter corner of the room after picking up a drink. There, his frown when he thought about Edward March would hopefully go unnoticed.

Obviously he had sympathy for what this other version of his brother had been through. Quite viscerally, actually, as one of the few people in the world who knew what it was like to die and come back as something different than you were before. But at the same time . . . Edward gave him the creeps. He was so very much  _ not Ed _ . Oh, sure, they looked alike and even with minor differences in height and build, it was possible to mistake one for the other at a glance. But temperamentally and personality wise? Nothing alike. And when Edward looked at Al, there wasn't anything there. None of the warmth or instant  _ recognition _ that he got from Ed. To see those eyes and not see them light up with love was –

Kind of scary.

Still, he'd not argued against Edward going with Noah because he knew how much of a jerk he'd come across as if he tried. Early on, he decided the decision should be hers alone and the best thing he could do was keep out of it. He just hadn't been prepared for how much tongue biting was needed to go through with that . . .

Darn it all to heck. Here he was, at a party in full swing, and all he could do was stand in a corner and stew about things outside his control. What was he, his brother? He took a long draft of fruit-juice and cast about for someone to talk to. Amantieus was over by the food tables – oh, but he was talking to Cato and if Al tried to join in, no doubt he'd end up asking a thoughtless question. Rick was on the dance-floor, arm linked with one of the pharmacists. Russell was still out there too –

“Doesn't look like he's having much fun, does it?”

The question made him jump. With the band playing, he'd not heard anyone approach. Al blinked at the young man leaning against the wall beside him, then followed his stare. Sure enough, even though he'd gotten into step with the rhythm, Russell still didn't look comfortable whirling around with the woman who'd dragged him into it. Which was a crying shame because she was absolutely stunning and clearly very much enjoying being with him.

“Obviously he can dance,” the man next to Al said thoughtfully, “so I guess it must be who he's dancing with that's got him like that.”

_Now_ Al recognised him. Felix. The student from the station. They had only exchanged a few words in passing since then. “I . . . guess so.”

“Sorry.” Felix held the contents of his glass up to the light. “You came to get a bit of privacy and here I come, barrelling in.”

“No, that's OK. You guys went to all this trouble and I'm just standing here.”

“Hey, don't worry about it. Wasn't any trouble for me.  _ Docea _ Rufina's the one who arranged it all.”

Al turned to look at Felix properly. He had a sharp face, just a bit too bony to call handsome. His grey-brown hair was cut thin at the sides but sprouted longer at the top, which seemed a common style among men in Dahsan. On most of them, the long bits flopped over in a way that reminded Al of Scar. Felix, however, looked like a dapper porcupine, hair teased into swept-back spikes.

“Have you been her student long?” Al asked, making a stab at being sociable.

“Couple of years. Didn't really know what I was going to do with myself when I got here and she sort of took me under her wing.”

“Was it like that for a lot of the students?”

Felix angled himself slightly more towards Al. “What makes you ask?”

“Just a feeling. Given how you all interact with her.”

“Yeah, I guess so. You get a bunch of people turning up to start a city and there'll be some who've no idea how they're going to help until someone like her or Cato comes along and says, here, we'll teach you.” He grinned around the rim of his drink. “Could have been worse. Might have gotten desperate enough to join the priesthood.”

Al looked over at Amantieus. “They don't seem too bad.”

“Hah!” This was apparently Felix's final comment on the matter. “So how'd you get mixed up with this? Aren't you some big-shot hero? You really got time to rough it with the likes of us?”

Groaning, Al kneaded his forehead. “You know most of those stories are about my brother, right? And most of the rest are made up?”

“I did not know that, no. In fact, I would not have come over here had I known that the Amestrian newspapers would stoop to printing obvious propaganda. My entire world view has been shattered.”

His dead-pan tone made Al snort. “Did you really only come over to speak to big-shot hero Alphonse Elric?”

“Nah. You looked lonely and I took pity. Though if you want to spin me a tale of how awesome you are, go right ahead. I will genuinely be unable to tell if you're lying or not.”

And most of it would sound like a fantasy anyway. “If it's OK with you, I think I'll stick to just being me for now.”

Felix flashed him another grin. “I'm sure that'll be just as good.”

Something about the way he said that made Al's neck feel warm. He stuck a finger in his collar, which was fairly pointless since it was already hanging wide open. “So, uh, do you have parties like this often?”

“Kind of. Not party parties, but festivals and such. And yes, we drink fruit-juice at those too.”

“I guess it's pretty special in the desert.”

“That and lots of small-print in the scriptures about the proper use of wine.”

“I visited somewhere once where the fountains flowed with wine.”

“Cool.”

“No, unfortunately it wasn't. The whole place stank of vinegar.”

Felix gave a bark of laughter. “God, I can imagine. Maybe Ishbala had the right idea after all. So how about you? Does the League of Alchemists go in for posh balls to mark the seasons? You guys live in a mansion house, right?”

“It's more like a half-built university these days . . . but no, not really. Which is strange now I think about it. I'd have thought Lady Penny would be all for holding big parties . . . but I think the last time I went to a 'posh ball' was when my brother was made a State Alchemist again.” Al quickly gulped down what was left of his drink. “Which, err, wasn't really anything to celebrate.”

“Was the party fun at least?”

“It had its moments.” After all, that was where he'd met Mika. Oh, Mika . . . they'd only managed a few letters since parting and most of the time Al tried to forget how unlikely it was that they'd see each other again. Amestrians were no more welcome in Creta now than they'd been a decade ago.

He dragged his mind back to the present before it could turn maudlin. “This party's better. For one thing, I don't have to wear a stupidly fancy suit to get in.”

“Oh?” Felix's eyebrows rose. “Shame. I'd have liked to see what Alphonse Elric looks like when he's being fancy.”

And perhaps just because he'd been thinking about Mika, Al suddenly found himself scrutinising the other man's body language and mentally replaying the conversation they'd been having. Was the way Felix tilted towards him . . . or where his eyes went when he wasn't meeting Al's . . . ?

No. Surely not.

“Is that right?” How could his mouth be dry when he'd just emptied his glass into it?

“Yep. Though it'd be unfair to make you keep a dinner jacket and waist coat on in this climate.”

“I, uh, could always take them off again. Once you got to see me in them.”

“You could.”

He was probably leaping to conclusions. He had to be. He'd managed to miss Mika returning his crush for months and then it had been too late and now he was overcompensating in the other direction, assuming that everyone who talked to him was –

Rick did not look at him like Felix was looking at him. Neither did Leo or any of the students he talked to after sessions or at meals. He wasn't even sure that Sadie at Central HQ had ever looked at him quite so –

Al swallowed. “Are you . . .  _ flirting _ with me?”

Felix's mouth curved like he was fighting not to look smug. “That depends.”

Who the hell answered a question like that with 'it depends'? “On what?”

Losing the fight entirely, Felix gave him the kind of smirk that would have shamed General Mustang. “Is it working?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The moment the door to Al's room shut, Felix was all over him, nuzzling his neck, hands moving up and down his body. Which did a good job of driving  _ everything _ out of his head, but he had just enough presence of mind to voice the question that had been worrying him since they'd left the hall. “Is it OK for us to be doing this?”

“Mmm?” Felix mumbled into his collar bone. Then he pulled back, holding Al at arms' length. “Oh, what, you're worried you'll end up being whipped for public indecency or something?”

“Well . . . I know different places have different attitudes to what people can, uh, do with each other and . . . I mean, I'm going to be leaving in a few days anyway but you're . . .”

“Riiiight. Yes, it's fine. If I got my cock out on the temple steps, there'd be hell to pay, but if no one but Ishbala sees what I get up to, no one by Ishbala gets upset about it. And I'm pretty sure He has better things to do than smite me for having some fun.”

“Oh.” That was a whole set of mental images Al didn't know what to do with. “Ishbalans do things behind closed doors, just like Amestrians, huh?”

Felix choked on a laugh. “Amestrians do  _ what _ ?” He tugged Al towards the bed.

“That was just something someone said to me once.” Al let himself be towed along, cursing how hopelessly unworldly he sounded.

“They must only have gotten to see the nice parts of your towns then, 'cos believe me, Amestrians can do it  _ anywhere _ .”

“You . . .” Grew up in the bad parts of Amestrian towns? Well, duh. “I guess that's probably true.”

“Trust me, I spent plenty of time watching to know what I'm talking about.”

He – what?

The back of Felix's legs bumped against the bed and he let go of Al so he could sprawl down on the edge. That brought his head level with Al's belly and he buried his face there for a moment. He breathed in deeply, then looked up so hungrily it made Al's skin tingle. “Let's say I've known what I wanted for a long time.”

All right,  that did ridiculous things to Al's blood-flow.

He reached down to caress Felix's jaw, to brush his fingers up along the cheek bone. He held his touch there, staring into the other man's deep red eyes.

A flicker of doubt crossed Felix's expression. “Sorry if they don't do it for you.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you know. I've heard it all before.  _ Blood-eyed freak _ .  _ Red-eyed rat. _ Don't worry. There's plenty else you can look at.”

“What?” Al had heard all the words, they just did not quite go together in a way that made sense. “Why would I – why  _ wouldn't _ I want to see your eyes? They're beautiful.”

Felix put his hand over Al's. He almost smiled, but not quite. “That's sweet. But let's not pretend we're trying to be romantic here.”

Al felt an absurd surge of disappointment and it must have shown on his face because Felix suddenly leant away. He regarded Al from the slightly greater distance, attitude turned wary. “That's right, yeah? This is just . . .” The words tapered off. His mouth worked for a moment. “Is this . . . you  _ have _ done this before, right?”

Mortification ignited a fresh blaze in Al's neck. He stammered. “There – I – there was someone but we never . . . he left before we could. I've had, uh, dinner dates since but I – well – I've not –”

Felix's face fell. He flopped backwards until his head was resting on the other side of the bed-frame. Then he pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes.

“Sorry,” Al mumbled.

“That's what I should be saying. I just assumed . . .”

“Assumed what?”

“That . . . you . . .” He waved imprecisely in Al's general direction. “You look like  _ that _ and, I don't know, you're a godless alchemist and – are you seriously telling me you were stuck on a train with Mr Floofy Hair for  _ how long _ and you  _ weren't _ doing each other stupid?” 

Another beat between hearing and processing that no doubt made Al look the wide-eyed innocent. He managed a few unintelligible sounds. “I . . . err, never thought about that. I'm not sure I'm Russell's type. If he has a type. I don't know. I'm not sure he's mine. B-but we didn't – and –”

And Al was never going to be able to look Russell in the eye ever again.

Felix groaned. Al took a seat on the bed next to him. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, so he folded his arms and hugged them to his chest. He wanted to apologise again or explain or – something. “I didn't mean to mislead you.”

“Hey, no.” Felix sat up and patted him on the shoulder. “You didn't do anything like that. Like I said, I assumed. That's on me, not you.”

“But you don't want to . . . with someone who's . . .” Oh, this was ridiculous. Al knew all the words that should go in that sentence, but for some reason they would not come out of his mouth. “You wanted someone with more experience.”

“What I  _ wanted _ was to have some uncomplicated fun with a pretty blonde-haired boy. That's not a chance that comes along too often in my life these days.”

“You've really got a thing for people like, uh,  _ me _ , don't you?”

The Ishbalan spread his hands in an eloquent shrug.

“But . . . a . . . virgin is too complicated.”

“Oh, look, that's not what I meant. It's just more fun if everyone knows what they're doing, that's all.”

“I pick things up quickly,” Al said defiantly.

Felix glanced sideways at him and did not quite hide his grin in time.

“I  _ do _ .”

“I believe you.”

Al deflated. “You really thought I'd have ' experience' because of the way I look?”

“I hate to break this to you, but I'm a terrible person who assumes that underneath it all, everyone is as depraved as he is.”

“Depraved, huh?”

“Just ask my aunt. Drove her crazy, trying to get me to follow the rules and be a good little boy. Poor old soul. As if she didn't have enough to deal with.” Felix's voice was warm and Al could guess at the shape of the story behind the words.

He put his arm around Felix, who tensed immediately. “Don't go feeling sorry for me,” he said quietly.

“Then don't go around saying things that make it sound like you need a hug.” Al bit his lip. “I don't think it's depraved to like other people.

“That's what it is for you? Liking other people?”

“Isn't that what it is for everyone?”

“Not always. Sometimes it's just about wanting them.” Felix twisted to speak into the crook of Al's neck again. “Needing them.”

Oh, that was . . . that was very not fair.

“S-so inexperience doesn't always matter either?”

“I can be persuaded to put in the extra effort.” Any pretence of talking gave way to a string of soft kisses.

“Oh . . . g-good . . .”

“Not that this is any effort.”

“H-hey! It's not my fault – I n-never . . . uh . . .”

“Never what?” Felix pulled back, which was  _ also _ not fair.

Al did his best to plug his brain back in the right way round. “I was . . . I had a condition when I was a kid. I didn't exactly, um, grow up normally. Didn't go through puberty for years and than it happened all at once and I never got the chance to figure anything out. About . . . this kind of thing.”

“That must have been pretty strange.” He ran his hand down Al's spine, literally doing what he had been achieving in spirit for the last minute. “And now you want to do some figuring out, is that it?”

“You were practically licking me earlier. I thought . . . now was as good a time as any.”

Felix's fingers teased Al's shirt out of his waistband and then they were hot against his skin. “Let's work up to the licking. The way this is going, I'd be afraid you'd burst into flames.”

“H-hey!”

“Let's start with something simpler.” He swung himself off the bed and before Al quite knew what was going on, Felix was kneeling down in from of him, gently parting his legs.

The hungry look was back. Al swallowed. “W-what's that?”

“Getting you exactly as naked as you want to be right now.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


So. No more catching unicorns for Al.

He studied his face in the mirror above the sink, checking for any outward sign of this new state of being. His eyes seemed to be stuck at 'completely dilated', though that was probably just the low light. Other than that . . . the same face he'd had when he woke up that morning.

Well, maybe you didn't get to claim innocence after having your soul shunted six ways to Sunday and being turned into an all-powerful rock composed of human lives. Whatever he'd lost in the last hour or so, it probably hadn't been much to write home about in the first place. Not that he was planning to write home about  _ any _ of this. It might actually kill Ed to hear the details and fratricide was not high on Al's list of priorities right now. No. Right now, he just wanted to savour how he felt and maybe watch Felix for a while.

He was on his back on the bed, dozing, skin coppery in the lamp light. His body was more muscular than Al had expected, though haunted by the same boniness that showed on his face. Was that the right way to describe it? Al hadn't spent much time thinking about how to talk about other people's bodies. It was fascinating though. To feel the contours of someone else and see the way their life had shaped them.

Should he be feeling guilty? He thought about Mika, about what they might have had, testing for any sense of being a betrayer. Nothing. It would have been hypocritical to have parted saying they should each seize the day the next time they found someone to seize it with and then . . . not done that. Maybe it  _ was _ a bit self-serving to have done so while not knowing if Mika would, or had, done the same. But thinking like that, he'd just mope around forever.

And he didn't want to do that. He wanted –

He wanted more of what he'd just had with Felix. To be so close to someone and have them play him like a fiddle. To play them right back. He itched to learn how his fingers could make those feelings blossom under someone else's skin. Another kind of alchemy. Another kind of exchange.

Did that make him a bad person? Before, he'd always thought about relationships in terms of shared kisses, flowers, dinner and dancing. Which was strange really, given that his only real point of reference was Ed and Winry. Even they had their romance, though, over and above anything more physical and to Al's twice-childish mind that had been the part he was supposed to be looking for.

Now – it was a bit much to say that a whole new world had opened up before him. He'd just gained a greater appreciation for something, was all. Like discovering flavour for the first time.

Perhaps this was what it would have been like if he'd remembered the armour when he got his body back.

Felix smiled as Al ran a hand down his rib cage, across the flat of his stomach. “Hi.”

Al opened his mouth to attempt something seductive. It was probably going to come out crass but he wanted to give it a try anyway.

Gunshots sounded outside the hostel. Felix sat bolt upright, naked terror on his face. Al spun to face the shutters. There were more shots, closer this time, horrifyingly loud. He moved quickly to the window. Felix made a noise, a half syllable cut off before it got out properly.

“It's OK,” Al said, the reassurance automatic, his senses all focused towards the street. His hand found the edge of the shutter. “I'll be careful. I'm just going to see what's going on.”

The wooden panel exploded inwards, catching him across the face. He stumbled back, the shock not quite enough to unbalance him. He heard Felix curse in Ishbalan, glimpsed him throwing his hands over his head.

Then something round and hissing flew in through the open window. Before he'd even registered the sickly smell, Al's vision was swimming. He gagged, trying to hold his breath far, far too late.

The floor met him on the way down and right before everything went grey, it occurred to him that, all things considered, this was _ exactly _ how he should have expected his first time to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Yes, I realise that in naming him Felix, I have set up the most godawful pun imaginable for this chapter and I HAVE NO REGRETS.  
> \- Enjoy the last nice thing I do for Al in this fic.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Chance It In The Fire' by Felix Hagen and the Family.


	12. Going Before A Fall

As soon as she saw the tracks leading to one particular shaft entrance among many, any doubt the whole affair was a trap left Hawkeye's mind. There had simply been no attempt whatsoever to disguise which of the openings had been used most recently. It was too obvious, too convenient.

The whole thing stank.

Mustang thought the same thing. She could see it in the way his eye narrowed as they climbed out of the car. Her hand went to her gun, ready to draw if this was that kind of ambush that went off the moment the guest of honour arrived.

Theoretically, this might not be a trap for the General. Theoretically, world peace might break out tomorrow and they would all be out of a job. She was not prepared to bet on either.

Nothing happened. Naturally. One did not lay bait all the way to the door and then let the fireworks off at the garden gate. Hawkeye forced her body to relax into something approaching ease, if only because she would be no use to anyone if she started jumping at every sound. Especially with six truck loads of soldiers banging their way into the field around her. The General raised a hand – already gloved – and gestured the troops forward. “Group One, secure that entrance,” he thundered, voice carrying enormously in the hollowed-out curve of the cliffs, “Groups Two and Three, spread out and check the other openings. Group Four, cover our backs. Group Five – search the buildings.”

Cranes and hoppers stood rusting in the mountain air beside wooden cabins and forlorn, half-empty carts. Plenty of hiding places. Plenty of vantage points. Hawkeye scanned to and fro, searching for the spot she'd pick, for the tell-tale glint of sunlight on metal.

Again, nothing. Just the rush of boots on dirt, the clatter of doors being thrown open, shouts of 'clear' from all points of the compass. The mine was deserted. As abandoned as it was supposed to be. Those oh-so-obvious tracks, the only sign that anyone had intruded upon the site's slow decay.

Mustang snagged Hawkeye's gaze. He shook his head a fraction, glanced towards the shaft entrance. She jerked her chin, just slightly.

“Colonel Lockheed?” he called over his shoulder.

The lieutenant colonel strode over to join them, adjusting the leather bands around his wrists as he came. Hawkeye noted the designs stitched into them, the patterns of overlapping circles.

“Sir?”

“You and your men will take charge of the mine entrance while I lead a team into the shaft.”

Lockheed nodded, not questioning that Mustang should be the one to spearhead the expedition. “Will you be able to use your abilities to their full extent in a tunnel like that?”

The General chuckled humourlessly. “Ever seen the inside of an oven, Lieutenant Colonel?”

Half a bluff. Hawkeye was no alchemist but she knew they would be in trouble if Mustang needed to go all-out in an enclosed space with potentially limited oxygen. Despite that, she did not believe any opponent would come out the better of such an encounter and apparently neither did Lockheed. He returned Mustang's chuckle and moved smartly forward. “Captain Dassault! With me.”

A shorter man with a high forehead and dark, combed-back hair fell into step with him. Hawkeye watched them head away, lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at Mustang. He dipped his head and strode after Lockheed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The tunnel entrance loomed like a mouth about to chomp down on a particularly tasty morsel. Which was not the most elegant or original simile in the world. But then this did not appear to be the most elegant or original trap in the world, did it?

What would happen if they all just packed up and went home? Mustang could just imagine some shadowy mastermind, back in their hidden lair, getting the news that the mouse had turned aside from the cheese at the last minute. No doubt there would be much cursing, a certain amount of 'I'll get you next time' and possibly some unlucky flunky being fed to the dogs.

Ah, if only life were as simple as a railway station novel.

Havoc was waiting for them, stiff and wary, with Dakota gangling at his side. “The tunnel looks pretty solid, least for the first couple dozen metres,” he reported, “Looks like someone's done some repairs to the supports recently.”

“Alchemy?”

“No, hammer and nails. Want me to order the scouts to start heading in?”

Mustang checked his gloves were on properly. A pointless gesture, meant for punctuation and absolutely not to assuage the grumbling worries that came of what he was about to do. “I'm leading the expedition. Lieutenant, did your upbringing extend to knowing your way around the inside of a mine as well as the correct terminology?”

With such a scrawny neck, there was no way for Dakota to disguise a gulp that made his Adam's apple bob up and down. “I . . . I've some idea of what to expect, sir.”

“Then you're with me. Havoc, fall back and ensure the perimeter remains secure. I don't want any surprises creeping up behind us. Don't worry,” Mustang added, noting the concern that the captain was too slow to wipe off his face, “The Lieutenant Colonel will be here to reinforce us if need be.”

He waited for comprehension to dawn. Was it silly to be proud of how quickly it came? People underestimated Jean Havoc. They saw the chain-smoking womaniser and missed the stubborn intelligence beneath, the cast-iron loyalty. It took only a second for him to grasp the shape of the situation and where those 'surprises' might come from.

Still, points off for the furtive glance at Lockheed.

“I want Falman and Breda to lead a thorough sweep of the workings out here,” Mustang went on, “Let's make sure this mine is as abandoned as it looks. Captain Hawkeye, you're with me. We'll take Group One in.”

“Sir.”

“You sure that'll be enough?” Havoc asked, sounding genuinely concerned, “I know you're hot stuff, boss, but one bucket of water and –”

Mustang held up a gloved hand, palm outwards to show off a refined version of the transmutation circle that he'd first added to give him an edge in the rematch with Fullmetal. “Any more remarks about my status as a one-trick pony you'd care to make before we get started?”

Havoc's face crumpled into a nervous grin. “Nah, I'm good.”

The entrance was still yawning hungrily, waiting for more willing victims to walk down its gullet. As he left Havoc and exchanged one last nod with Lockheed, Mustang wondered if it was possible to remove the part of the brain that produced unhelpful metaphors in times of crisis. Hawkeye fell into step with him, a half-pace behind, on his blind side. Knowing she was there helped. Even when he could not see her, unceasing vigilance practically radiated off her.

He tested his thumb against the tip of his middle finger, savouring the rasp of the ignition cloth, then looked the opening square in its not-actually-a-mouth and set his shoulders. “All right. Let's get this over with.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They got to the smuggling tunnel far sooner than Hawkeye anticipated. For about a quarter of an hour, they walked through what seemed to be a perfectly normal mine shaft. Not that she was an expert, but Dakota did not point out anything amiss either. Just a big tunnel dug through black earth, wood and metal bracing it into right angles, rails cutting sharp lines along the floor.

As Havoc had said, there were signs of repairs to the supports. Fresh lanterns hung every few metres too, filled and ready for use. The General lit them with off-hand clicks as they passed, adding orange firelight to the white beams from the soldiers' torches. The effect was slightly distracting, though worth it for the greater visibility.

In the main passage, that is. It turned the openings of side tunnels – the 'drifts', apparently – into opaque black rectangles and it would be easy for anyone lurking there to pick targets. Hawkeye did not like that at all, but she liked the idea of only being able to see where the torches were pointing even less.

Then the tunnel abruptly changed construction and it was all moot anyway.

It looked like two completely different passageways had been mashed end-to-end. The props gave way sharply to heavy stonework covered in the familiar patina of an unrefined transmutation. The roof rose with it, going from maybe a half a metre above Hawkeye's head to fully twice the General's height.

The rails continued uninterrupted, save for where new steel had been grafted to the older, discoloured tracks. A little way past that point, a small locomotive squatted at the head of two flat-bed wagons.

“Well, how about that.” Mustang approached the little train as if it were a ticking bomb.

Which was not what someone of his rank was supposed to do around ticking bombs.

Hawkeye moved past him quickly, shining her torch across the locomotive and beneath it, checking for suspicious wires or canisters. She came up empty-handed. “Whitworth,” she called to one of the troopers, “You know anything about trains?”

The sandy-haired kid – he was barely older than Alphonse – hurried forward. He waited for Hawkeye to take up a stance covering him, then slung his rifled over his shoulder. “We don't get many of these in the motor-pool,” he joked as he peered at the locomotive's innards.

“It looks like a more up-to-date version of what they used in the mines back home,” Dakota said, coming up beside Mustang to take a look, “Those kinds of trucks are for moving people and supplies.”

“I think I can guess what they've been used to move here.” The General rested a fist against his hip. “Would machinery like this get left behind after this place shut down?”

“Ah, possibly. Depends if it was worth taking it or not. Though this looks in good condition . . .”

“It is.” Whitworth had the cowling off. After poking around inside a little, he reached over to press the starter. The whine of the engine coming to life made both Mustang and Dakota flinch.

“Trying to prove it's not booby-trapped, Private?” Hawkeye snapped.

“Oh, yeah, sorry sir.” He sheepishly put the cowling back. “But it isn't. No sign of anyone messing with the controls and the batteries seem to be charged. The brakes haven't been mucked about either that I can see.”

“There are many ways to fix a vehicle that don't leave obvious traces. What if the batteries had been rigged to blow when the engine was started? Be more cautious.”

His mumbled 'yessir' was lost in the sound of Mustang bounding dramatically up on to one of the wagons. “No sense walking when there's other options. I assume one of you two gentlemen can make this thing go?”

Dakota exchanged a look with Whitworth, who shrugged noncommittally. “I can probably do that,” the lieutenant said.

Good. Of the two, Whitworth would be more use holding a gun when things turned nasty. Hawkeye climbed up beside Mustang, mostly so that she could speak into his ear. “Is it wise to trust a vehicle left behind by criminals?” She did not mean it as a question to which 'yes' was a possible answer.

“A calculated risk. I doubt they'd sabotage their own transport. Doesn't look like this has a very high top speed, either, so a fatal crash seems unlikely. Since it didn't blow up when it was turned on, I suspect it's just another breadcrumb. Besides, do you really want to be down here a second longer than we absolutely have to?”

Hawkeye let out the tiniest of sighs and clamped her mouth shut before she was tempted to respond.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They took four of the troopers with them. Hawkeye picked Whitworth, Loening, Hanriot and Austin, which Mustang trusted meant they were the best shots and coolest under pressure. It was three to a wagon, with Dakota folded into a seat on the engine clearly meant for a much shorter man. None of the rest of them were any more comfortable. There was not enough room to dangle their legs over the side, so they had to hunch up or else settle into kneeling positions. Every imperfection in the rails was magnified up through what laughing passed for the train's suspension, bumping and rattling the bones of everyone involved.

Oh, and they were heading ever-deeper into an alchemised tunnel that seemed to have been specifically constructed so the supports, slightly curved and ominously rib-like, cast the deepest shadows possible.

In Mustang's defence, it was not as if things were any less creepy before they found motorised transport. And the train headlights did mean they could see some way ahead. Even if the darkness further on swallowed the illumination far too quickly, giving the impression they were rushing towards a point of solid blackness and would at any moment slam into it.

He really was going to have to see about that metaphorabotomy when they got back to Central.

Whoever had made this passage favoured scale over finesse. He could see points where the shape distended away from the pattern, creating organic undulations in an otherwise straight construct. That might have indicated that the transmutation had been carried out in stages. He certainly hoped so. The raw power to have created it all in one go . . .

Mustang frowned. He turned his head to follow the wall as it rattled past, until he was looking back over his shoulder. Apparently the tunnel curved slightly because he could not see the light from the lanterns in the mine. Just more darkness.

No falling rocks. No closing walls. No sudden inrush of freezing water to drown them all, or toxic fumes to choke them to death. Nothing particularly trap-like at all.

And yet his every instinct still screamed that this was, in fact, a trap. It was too elaborate to be anything else. But if so . . . how was it supposed to work? At what point did the tempting cheese run out and the metal bar snap down?

Were they expected to go all the way to the end of the tunnel? Would Lockheed's back-up turn into a firing squad when they made the return trip? Was some alchemist lurking in the shadows, ready to crush them at a prearranged signal?

Hmm. Over-complication. That was the theme in all this. But an over-complicated trap was a poor one. The more moving parts, the more opportunities there were for the prey to get out. A piece of cheese and a spring-loaded bar was really the perfect model. Temptation and punishment balanced such that giving into one would inevitably bring down the other . . .

Mustang's breath caught. “Stop the train!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The General sprang to the ground as soon as Dakota's urgent application of the brakes brought them to walking pace. Biting down on a curse, Hawkeye leapt after him.

What on earth was he playing at now?

She caught up as he stopped a pace from the nearest tunnel support and played the beam from his torch over the scaly stonework. Putting her back to him, she scanned the darkness, checking for threats, making sure the troops were picking out a defensive circle around the train. “Sir?”

“What do you know about Aerugian alchemy, Captain?”

There were days – just occasionally – when she could have happily strangled her commanding officer. “That it exists. That they don't use it on the battlefield.”

“Quite right. According to their traditions, alchemy is an entirely constructive art and to use it destructively would be extremely dishonourable. Doesn't stop them using it to build bigger and better weapons, of course . . .”

“You believe that's relevant to this tunnel?”

“How would you trap me?” He was still looking at the stonework, though it was clear he was no longer really seeing it. “You probably know me better than anyone else. How would you do that?”

Hawkeye took the time to consider her response, though she scarcely needed it. “I would threaten something you cared about.”

“A bit obvious.”

“But effective. You would have to act, even if you guessed it was a trap.”

“True. So you'd go after Gracia or Elysia or the Elrics . . .”

“Or the Ishbal reconstruction effort. You're desperate for it to succeed and see helping it along as a way of gaining some measure of atonement for what you did during the war.”

He glanced at her, pained. But he conceded the point. “All right. That's the bait. How would you actually spring the trap?”

“I would put you in a position where you had to walk into it yourself. That wouldn't be hard. You hate letting other people take risks for you.”

“And I don't trust other people to get the job done right.”

“Yes. And then . . .” She frowned, sorting through different options. “I would engineer a situation that would let me take you out remotely. Not just at range. Your abilities make you dangerous even to a sniper. I would set things up so that you were a key part to your own defeat. Find a way to turn your flame alchemy against you. You're too used to relying on it. In the heat of the moment, you react automatically. So . . . a decoy and a gas main. Or carefully placed explosives.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Captain.” His smile faded away. “Would you like to know how  _ this _ trap was supposed to work?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode along the length of the train until he was standing next to the locomotive. He peered into the darkness, stroking his chin.

“We were supposed to keep going all the way to the end,” he told her as she reached his side again, “To wherever this tunnel comes out. Then something was going to happen. A rockslide or an explosion. Something to cut off our retreat and force us to get out of the tunnel in a hurry.”

“Driving us out into the open on the other side of the border.” Hawkeye had considered the possibility of that happening and had sternly instructed the troops that on no account were they to exit the tunnel on to Aerugian soil, if that turned out to be possible.

But if it were that or letting everyone die –

“Can you imagine it?” Mustang asked, “Amestrian troops bursting out of the ground, with a State Alchemist at their head no less. A tunnel made with alchemy, connecting a State-owned mine to sovereign Aerugian territory?”

“We'd be lucky to survive long enough to surrender.”

“And even if we did, we'd probably start war into the bargain. All because I needed to find out what lay at the end of the trail without making a big fuss. It'd be very neat, wouldn't it? Undone because I wanted to save the Ishbalans from the Scarred Men, the State from embarrassment, my own troops from disaster . . .”

Dakota and the rest stirred uneasily. Mustang was not keeping his voice down: he wanted them all to hear him spell it out. The lieutenant fidgeted about in his too-small seat. “So, ah, what do we do now, sir?”

“Now?” The General arched an eyebrow at him. “Now we turn around and get the hell out of here.”

Relief spread across Dakota's sallow face. “Sir!” He reached shifted a lever on the controls, putting the motor into reverse.

A black spear lanced down from the roof and pinned him to the locomotive like a mounted butterfly. They died together, the engine and headlights sputtering out as the lieutenant's shocked gape froze in place. Mustang snapped, launching a coil of fire upwards in the same instant that Hawkeye raised her pistol. She pulled the trigger four times, aiming blindly through the flames.

Something above them sizzled with the smell of burning flesh. But there was no scream of pain and no assailant fell to the ground.

Instead, a laugh echoed obscenely along the tunnel, soft and seemingly everywhere at once.

“ _No, you're not going anywhere.”_

Torch beams swung wildly as everyone tried to find who was speaking. It sounded like a whole chorus, as if there were dozens of people whispering to them out of the dark.  _ “I knew it wouldn't work,” _ they said,  _ “Too clever by half. You and that stupid plan. But don't worry. I'll fix that.” _

The spear that had impaled Dakota whipped back upwards. There was movement on the ceiling, something slithering away along the tunnel. The lights converged as everyone followed the motion into the darkness ahead of them.

The darkness opened its eyes.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the half second before his combat training took over, Mustang counted over two dozen pairs of eyes glinting in the torch light. They were all shapes and sizes. He could not tell what colour they were, or whether there were faces to go with them. Just that they were all looking straight at him.

He clicked, both hands. Nothing fancy. A single blast, aimed squarely at whatever unholy thing had just killed one of his men. Beside him, the air cracked with gunfire, a hail of bullets punctuating burning destruction.

Black tendrils whipped out from either side of the tunnel and sliced the fireball to pieces. His transmutations broke apart, lines of oxygen dissipating before they could properly ignite.

The darkness soaked up the the bullets, the impacts sparking in white flashes and then going out as if they'd never been. Whatever was there, it filled the tunnel in a great amorphous mass. Limbs snaked across the floor, along the walls. There were eyes in those too, staring out of twisting black flesh as it reached eagerly for the soldiers.

A blade sang past Mustang's ear. Hawkeye jumped back, firing as she went.

Another divided Whitworth's right arm from his torso, as clean and dispassionate as a scalpel. He screamed but not for long.

Mustang clicked again, a more concentrated reaction, burning up the nearest limbs in a waft of cooked meat. More arms instantly sprouted to take their place.

A hand caught his wrist. Another, his ankle. They were sharp, cutting into his flesh, into the leather of his boot. He tried to scorch them off but it was too late. He was hoisted from the ground, swung through the air.

He heard Hawkeye call out after him, then yell at the remaining troops to hold their fire.

More too-sharp fingers grasped his arms, his legs, his neck.

There were eyes everywhere. The hands dragged him towards them, pulling him into something that gaped like a giant's mouth, all his feverish imaginations about the tunnel entrance brought to life.

The hands let go. His stomach flipped over with a moment of weightlessness.

He smashed into the ground, chin jarring off one of the rails. Pain lanced through his skull, through his elbows and knees. He ordered himself to ignore it, to get up and get on with the fight. His ears rang. The gunfire had stopped. No one was shouting for him. There was no time to think about what that meant.

In the confusion, he had dropped his torch. He was in pitch blackness. He could feel it moving around him, slithering and writhing with a noise like a nest of snakes.

He was halfway into a crouch when something slammed down on each of his hands, pressing them against the earth. Dagger fingers ripped at the backs of his gloves, biting into his flesh. He yelped.

“ _I like that,”_ the voice that was many voices crooned,  _ “Do that again.” _

Mustang ground his teeth together and squirmed, trying to drag his hands free. The pressure on them got worse.

“ _Oh fine, be like that.”_

He heard . . . footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. And very close.

The darkness shivered. Another hand seized him by the hair, wrenching his head to the side.

This one . . . felt normal. Small. Clumsy. The nails dug coldly into his scalp.

A torch clicked on, right in his face. He squinted through the glare, determined not to blink. The light hovered there for a second then dropped down so that it was pointed under his jaw instead.

There was someone on his left, the same someone who gripped a handful of his hair. They moved around, coming into his line of sight. He couldn't make out the details at first. Just the outline of a man –

No. A  _ boy _ . It was a  _ child _ , not so much clothed in black as painted in it, bare-armed, pale-skinned –

And wearing a face straight out of Mustang's nightmares.

“Hello, Mr Rat,” said Selim Bradley, eyes alight with hatred, the mark of the ouroboros burning red on his forehead, “Caught you at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Poor Dakota. When I first came up with him, I had him slated for joining Ed's crew in the AOD. Then, ten years later, the Monster At The End Of This Chapter goes and stabs the poor sod.  
> \- Speaking of whom, adjusting this one for the 2003 system was fun.  
> \- I might take a week off after the intermission I'll post next Wednesday. I've been having a bad couple of weeks and have not built up as much of a chapter buffer as I'd have liked.  
> \- The chapter's song is 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' by Edvard Grieg and whichever orchestra can play the most creepy version of it.


	13. Intermission: The Language of Flowers

_They say that the Emperor grew most fond of the Sage of the West and could oft be found walking the palace with him when duty and study were done. They were of an age, and though distant in their stations, they found their temperaments much in common. It was true also that the Sage stood apart from the royal court, owing allegiance to none of the Great Clans and staking no claim upon divinity's good graces. So it was that, bound only by a kindling friendship, he might hear such things the Emperor could speak to no other man._

  
  


* * *

  
  


“We have to order them not to be removed when they wilt,” the Emperor said, waving a hand over the flowers, “If Master Hong had his way, We should never gaze upon anything less than perfect, so that Our soul is not sullied with even the idea of decay.”

The alchemist craned forward to examine the arrangement, the leaves that were beginning to curl into brown despair. “Yet you insist they remain?”

“Things decay. Things die. Every man must end and it is foolish to turn from that truth.”

“There is much wisdom in that, your Majesty.”

“Only experience, Master Philosopher.”

Straightening, the alchemist tugged at his embroidered sleeve. “Yes . . .” he breathed, “If I may, Majesty, I should like to offer my deepest condolences on the passing of your father.”

An expression that on a lesser man might have been taken as surprise passed across the Emperor's face. “Our father has been dead for many years. He has been well grieved for.”

“Yet there is never enough grieving for those taken from the world too soon.” The alchemist lifted his hands. “So I offer my words, small as they may be.”

The Emperor was quiet for a long while. His gaze turned on the distant towers of the city walls, visible over the sweep of the city. “My father taught me many things.” His voice was low when he finally spoke. “The arts of war and of state, even something of love. Yet His greatest lesson was that being a lord of all means nothing to the whims of fate and disease.” He gestured to the dying flowers. “From His memory, I draw strength. But also much trepidation.”

“You fear the disease that took him will claim you as well?”

“No Emperor that claimed to know fear ever ruled for long. We would never discuss such matters with Our own court for . . . concern at the disruption it would might create.”

“Your politics are more finely balanced than any I have seen.”

“And you so well-travelled, Master Philosopher! Well. Xing stands above all the world. And there is so much I would do to raise it ever higher.”

Still looking into the distance, the Emperor laid his hands over his heart. A smile touched his face, but not a happy one. “My people love me. And I, them. I would see them guided into glory. I would give my whole life to their service. Yet . . . I find it hard not to consider my father's fate. To face mortal corruption before His work was done, to leave so much unfinished. It has taken years to return Xing to order. To bring peace out of the strife that He left behind. I would not wish that to be my legacy as well.”

The alchemist's robes whispered as he came to join the Emperor at the rail. He too looked out across the city, considering the tight-packed roofs that huddled in the shadow of the walls. “You say every man must come to his end. That we must not turn from that truth. But what if it were _not_ an absolute truth?”

“You jest with me,” the Emperor sighed, “Or else Master Hong's lessons are starting to turn your mind to the heavens as well. Joining the Immortals hardly counts when We have to surrender all mortal flesh to do so.”

“I am not talking about life after death. Whatever lies that way, I leave to the venerable Hong. I am talking about the persistence of form, solidity, of the life we live _now_. What if there was a way to hold on to who you are, without fear of dissolution?”

“Then that would be a fine miracle indeed. Is this what you seek in Our library, my friend? The key to the perfection of the body? If so, your long journey has been wasted.”

“I would never consider any journey that brought me such a welcome to have been wasted.” The alchemist bowed, copying the custom of those of Xing in a manner just slightly more respectful than it was familiar.

“I am glad to have met you too. Yet still. Our ancestors chased that dream all Their lives and all Their lives ended.”

“True,” the alchemist admitted as he drifted back to the flowers that had spurred the conversation. The Emperor watched curiously as he plucked one of the stems from the vase and cupped the decaying bloom in his hand. “But that's the wonderful thing about dreams.” He closed his fingers. Red light seeped between them. “They are refined with every new dreamer.”

When he held the flower out to the Emperor, it was as vibrant and perfect as if it had been picked but a moment ago.


	14. What We Are On The Other Side

“ _Bugger!”_

“ _Edward!”_

“ _S-sorry! I just – I've lost again, haven't I?”_

_Helen scrutinised the fan of cards he threw down on the table. “Looks like it, I'm afraid.”_

“ _Well – there you are. I think you're cheating.”_

“ _At gin rummy? I wouldn't know how.”_

_Harrumphing, he crossed his arms and shoved his chair backwards, which would have worked better if the legs had not caught on the carpet and nearly tipped him on his head. Helen covered her mouth. His strop deflated before it could properly begin._

“ _Do you want to try something else?” she asked, “It's a shame the Professor isn't here tonight or we could ask Mrs McKinley to make up a four for whist. Or would you object because that's a game for old maids?”_

_Edward's mouth closed with an audible clack. “That's not what I was going to say,” he lied._

“ _Good, because I rather like whist and I wouldn't want you to thinking I'm an old maid.”_

“ _I don't! I'd never think that! You're – um . . . absolutely not that!”_

“ _You charmer, you.”_

_He felt himself turn bright red. Thankfully, Helen took pity on him before he could actually catch fire._

“ _My brothers always said I was like another mother to them. Even Alan. Perhaps I was born old and liking games for old people is just a symptom of that.”_

“ _You like what you like,” he said, because it was true and he did not want her to do herself down, “It doesn't have to mean anything.”_

_She looked at him, brown hair framing a warm, surprised smile. She always let it hang loose when she was at the boarding house, a sharp contrast to tight bun she wore to work. “Maybe not. But would being born old be so bad? It would save a lot of time.”_

“ _That's true.” Edward considered his own impending sixteenth birthday and how far off it still seemed. “You could just get on with things and not have to wait around until the world said you were grown-up enough to jump through the next hoop.”_

“ _I find it hard to believe you ever waited for permission to jump through any hoop. Or was it normal where you grew up for children to devour university-level textbooks?”_

“ _Yes, but . . .” He flapped his arm, trying to summon the words to encompass a life-time of frustration . “No one takes you seriously when you're not an adult!”_

“ _Said every boy, ever.”_

“ _You miss them, don't you? Your brothers,” he clarified, though he could see that she was already following the left-turn his train of thought had just taken. He almost regretted asking, since the answer was so obvious._

_But, as ever, she found it in herself to indulge him. “Of course. It's hard not to with Alan and John at the front, and Simon bound to follow the moment he's of age. I worry about them.”_

_Again, obviously. Why could he not keep his big mouth shut and avoid dragging all that worry to the surface?_

“ _I even worry about the little ones,” Helen continued before he could take anything back, “Though it's been years since they've been 'little ones'. Sometimes it feels like that's what missing people is, these days. Worrying about them. Wondering if they're still . . .”_

_Edward thought about his father. He knew logically that the same worry should apply . . . but it was hard to be concerned about someone who had so rarely been there in the first place. “Yes,” he said in place of a truth that was far too complex to burden a friend with._

“ _But I miss them for good reasons too. I miss . . . the background noise. Constantly having them around. It's not quite the same when you're in a house full of strangers. I even miss the ways they used to wind me up, though I dare say that wouldn't survive going back to them.”_

_Did he miss all those empty rooms, the echoing absence where half his family should have been? Trying to maintain a relationship with a mother whose heart was always somewhere else? Perhaps if he spent enough time in London, he would start longing for what he'd left behind. For the moment though, everything was still exciting and new, the possibilities too endless now they existed somewhere other than a silent library._

_Helen huffed and sighed. “No sense dwelling on it, though. We all go in different directions in the end. It's best to just enjoy the time we have together before we do.” She gathered the cards back together and set about shuffling them. “What say we play another round, then I let you trounce me at chess again?”_

_Edward grinned. “All right. Why not?”_

  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  


The shriek of a train whistled tore Edward March from the fitful doze in which he had been languishing. For several glorious seconds, he did not remember where he was. Then reality came crashing back into focus.

In the seat opposite, Noah sat engrossed in one of the books that she had bought at the last town. He could smell the old leather and dried paper, mingled with her hair and skin, the flowery after-taste of soap and perfume. When had he become so used to that? Thinking of people as a collection of impressions that went beyond mere sight. It was second-nature now, a fact of this life he was living. He had worked out how to manage his hearing, how to focus through background noise that threatened to deafen him. But the smells were more invidious. Harder to push down and ignore.

Why should that be so? Simply because humans usually had such a poor sense of smell? Did he just lack the capacity to sort through scents? Or would that too come more properly in time, as he got more used to –

Edward bit his lip. He  should be used to it  already . He'd had more than enough time to adjust. It should not be a shock to wake up each day in an unfamiliar world, every sense screaming at him, his skin chilly no matter how warm the weather. That was normality now. There was no avoiding it or pretending it was going to go away. All his dreams to the contrary were not going to come true.

Was that how it had been for the Edward of this world, trapped in his? They'd talked about it, briefly, the outline of what led them all to the Chambers Institute and here to a country that shouldn't exist. It must have been hard in similar ways. The same gulf between the familiar and the strange. The same pangs of half-recognition and disillusionment.

But Ed had never been entirely alone, had he? He'd had his father, then his brother. It was hard not to resent that, in the way that irrational things were often hard not to do. Because really, how would it have helped to have shared the misery with someone else?

Perhaps the next time they could stand to be in the same room, he would ask Ed more about those years in the real world. See if there were any coping strategies that he could share.

God.  _ Real world _ , indeed. As if this one was any less substantial and insistent. As if it did not crowd in from all sides, pressing down, scratching his skin, seeping into his bones –

He needed to get used to it. He knew he could, that it was possible. Sometimes whole days went by with only the barest of twinges, his mind fully consumed by new experiences.

Then a memory or a half-glimpsed face would open the wound again.

Because that was what it was. A wound, raw and bleeding, refusing to scab over –

Festering.

Was it possible to get gangrene of the soul? Helen had told him about gangrene once, after getting a letter from one her friends who was serving on the Western Front. He'd regretted asking her for the details. Regretted too imagining them mapped on to whatever was left of who he'd been before –

Now he was thinking about Helen again. About London. The airship.

No. No no no NO.

Edward opened his eyes and focused on the woman opposite. “Hullo,” he said, throwing the word out as if it were a rope she might catch to pull him into the here and now.

“Hello.” Noah didn't look up from her book, so he mustn't have been doing a great impression of still being asleep. “Did you manage to drop-off?”

“I think so.” For want of anything better to do, he did some exaggerated stretching. His back and shoulders made protesting popping noises. Shouldn't becoming superhuman have stopped that from happening? “How about you?”

“I slept a little, earlier. It's hard, on a train.”

“Mm.” He'd noticed she never seemed to be able to get completely comfortable. Not that he could either, but he assumed that she did not have to contend with being able to feel every nail in the seat whenever the carriage went over the slightest bump. “How much longer until we arrive?”

“I'm not sure.” She frowned slightly. “I'm not very good at judging distances by train.”

“Well, I suppose the conductor will let us know when we're getting close to –”

He broke off because saying 'West City' aloud just made him want to laugh. Who on earth named their most important cities after points on a compass? It was like a child's idea of place-names.

Noah made a distracted noise. Clearly her book was far more interesting than guesswork about arrival times. Edward found himself wishing that he had something to read as well. Unfortunately, the alchemy books took up all the spare suitcase space and he was not quite desperate enough yet to try battering his brain against those.

What he would not give for a nice long chemical treatise, written using sensible notation rather than some abhorrent hybrid of magic spell and geometry lesson. Perhaps he could beg enough money from Noah to buy a paperback novel at the station. They'd had those, back in Central. Most likely anything on offer would be pure brain rot but that was marginally preferable to trying to keep himself entertained with only his own thoughts.

He was just debating whether a stroll down the train would be enough of a distraction to keep him from slipping back into private misery when the steady rhythm of the carriage wheels was interrupted by a series of juddering clanks.

Points. They were going over a set of points. Absolutely nothing worth the urge to leap on to the luggage rack like a scalded cat. Edward sucked air through gritted teeth and tried not to do something silly like break the wall with a panicked fist.

The juddering came again after a heart-pounding pause. Then again, at a slightly different pitch. And once more for good measure.

Edward swallowed whatever vital organs were trying to force their way up his throat, because death was starting to lose its novelty and choking on your own spleen would be a daft way to go anyway. He took some proper deep breaths, prying his teeth apart. Just points for God's sake, absolutely no need to –

His eyes flew wide.

He was across the seat and pressing his face to the window before he realised what he was doing. There was nothing familiar out there. Just tracks and warehouses livened by the occasional lamppost or patch of weed-claimed ground, sights that lit no spark of recognition. But his mind was back in a dark rail van, trying to peer through a join in old wooden panels, trying to get some sense of where he was going, why he was being sent there.

It had taken two and a half days to get to Central from the lair of the people who had taken him in when he first arrived in Amestris. He spent most of that time cooped up in the van, seeing nothing but night giving to daylight and back again. The train guard, one of the 'master's' many servants, allowed him necessary breaks in the dark and left him to starve the days away. Not that he had starved. Hunger and thirst did not seem so pressing any more.

All Edward had had to gauge distance or time was the motion of the train, pounding up through the floor.

And he remembered, clear as anything, that one of the first distinctive beats in that motion had been a series of points, one then two, three then four, with a slightly different pitch on each pair.

“Are you all right?” Noah asked, leaning towards him, book abandoned.

He twisted his head to look at her. To look at the only other person in the whole world who came from a universe without alchemy. This shy, dark-eyed woman who could command matter and lighting. She was brave, to have jumped where he had needed to be dragged, and brilliant, to have made a home for herself here in this land of magicians and monsters. There was compassion on her face, a depth of concern that he was sure he had done nothing to earn.

Helen's image flashed before his eyes and he once again watched her die because she had been brave and let herself be drawn into danger out of concern for others.

“Nothing,” he said, settling back into his seat and making a show of relaxing, “The noise just startled me, that's all.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“What the hell happened in there?”

Hawkeye tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It was something to do that was not reaching for her gun. Havoc's frown deepened. He took a seat next to her on the back of the truck and dug inside his jacket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Pulling one free with his teeth, he held the rest out to her.

“You know I never have.”

He dug around for his lighter. “You look like you need to start.”

The lighter clicked. The tip of the cigarette caught. Havoc blew out. Hawkeye watched the thin smoke disappear towards the sky. She inhaled, finding some second-hand comfort in the tobacco fumes.

“There was a monster in the tunnel.”

_A shifting thing with so, so many eyes, whipping and boiling out of the shadows, all hands and blades and violence. The sound of a hundred people laughing at once._

“A monster?” Havoc did not disbelieve her. He had seen and heard too much for that.

“That's the only way I can describe it. It wasn't like anything natural.”

“So . . . not a chimera then?”

“No.” Hawkeye hugged herself because she was  _ not _ going to start shuddering. Her fingers felt cold through her under-shirt. “The only thing it reminded me of was something I saw when the General and I went after the Elrics.”

“You mean – it's from . . .  _ over there _ ?”

“Not exactly. When things started going strange, these . . . creatures started to appear. Like children dipped in tar. They looked human, more or less, but their arms and eyes . . .”

Havoc chewed on his cigarette. “Huh. I think I saw something like that too. And those soldiers who attacked Central, with the flying machines? The black gunk they were covered in?”

“Yes.”

“So you think the thing down there . . . ?”

She shook her head. She had no idea what to think, about any of it. “There wasn't anything underneath. Nothing remotely human, anyway.”

“And it attacked you?”

An understatement. “It killed Dakota. Whitworth, Hanriot.” Faster than blinking, blood and limbs, edges that must have been diamond sharp.

His mouth twisted. He knew already of course, who had not come back with them.

“And it . . . swallowed the General.”

_Grasping hands snatching him into the air, dragging him into the darkness. The shadows closing around him, the creature's mass contorting into a nightmarish bubble. The heart-stopping moment when none of them could risk firing in case they hit the man they were trying to save._

“Shit!” Havoc had none of her qualms about shuddering. “How did he get out?”

_Flashes of brilliant purple lighting up veins in impossibly black skin. Crude stone spikes growing in all directions, punching through the monster's flesh, making it howl over and over. General Mustang scrambling free, a flailing figure in blue wool._

“His back-up arrays. He transmuted the ground, disorientated it. It didn't take long to recover.”

“Austin said something about him transmuting the train as well?”

“Not exactly. He ordered us on to the wagons then propelled them back down the tracks. We had to leave the locomotive behind.”

_Dakota's wide, unseeing eyes watching them rocket away, glasses bright with the the glare of the General's alchemy. The monster rising up like a wave, slicing the spikes apart so that it could reform and hurl itself after its prey._

“So it was chase.” Smoke curled from Havoc's mouth. “Typical.”

“The way it moved . . .” Hawkeye's knuckles went white on a handful of blanket.

_The sound of a thousand sharp fingers snatching at the tunnel walls. The hiss of too-long limbs sliding across stone and dirt. Blades and spears singing towards the train, hands reaching out for the surviving passengers. The General's back, hunched over, pouring everything he had into the transmutation, pushing them faster and faster even while the monster gained._

She stroked the bandages around her right bicep, wincing at the sting. She must have been wounded during those hectic minutes when they were flying along on screaming wheels, the creature almost on top of them. But she did not remember feeling the cut.

_Whitworth's arm just coming away, the blood seeming to hesitate before it began to spurt._

Was it shock that meant she could so apathetically consider how close she'd come to being sliced apart?

“You got away from it though? I mean, obviously.”

She wanted to make a joke, something about being a ghost. She could not even summon up sarcasm. “We managed to gain some distance and get back to the mine. But it was still right behind us.”

_ Bursting into the lantern light, yelling at the waiting soldiers to run, to get to the side passages, just  _ move _ ! Feeling the transmutation waver as the tunnel changed structure, the wrench as the train derailed. Then running, dragging the General away as ever-grasping hands snatched the wagon from under him. _

Havoc rubbed the back of his neck. “Sergeant Stuart said it blew right past him and a couple of the guys after they got into a side tunnel. Didn't really see what it was, just something passing over the entrance. Brought a chunk of the roof down. We had to dig 'em out.”

“It was focused on us,” Hawkeye said. Offering what she could of the explanation he wanted for why those men survived where others did not. “On the General, I assume. I don't think it was even trying to kill anyone else by that point. We were just in the way.”

_More blades. More hands. Eyes everywhere. Mustang's breath panting in her ear. Her own coming in ragged gasps. The screams of men who did not get out of the way in time. Then –_

“We nearly didn't make it.” Not the first time that had been true. Probably would not be the last.

“Good job the Colonel was here, eh?”

_She thought Lockheed was there to trap them. It was instinct, seeing an alchemist standing in the way of their escape, sleeves rolled up, wrists crossed, arrays glowing, points of light filling the air around him, fever red and growing brighter. Her gun, a useless weight in her hand, snapped up just as he thundered out the order to GET DOWN!_

“Yes,” she agreed simply.

_A violent coldness. The ground, the press of soil against her cheek. Howling, inrushing air. The General's shoulder pushing into her side as his hands worked at the dirt. A moment of calm, filled only with the susurration of the monster's limbs. The sideways sight of Lockheed flinging his arms apart._

_Piercing shrieks, the points of light becoming blinding lines, a down-draft powerful enough to press her flat –_

_A thousand screams, layered one on top of the other, agony and pain and pure fury –_

_Lockheed, breathing hard, looking past her, satisfaction changing into shock –_

_Pushing herself up, turning to see, glimpsing the array carved into the ground with Mustang's pen knife –_

_The monster. As full of holes as a shooting-range target. But still there. Still alive. Reforming even as she watched, eyes and black flesh flowing together like dripping water._

_The General, sitting up, gloves torn, hands bloodied, one pressed to the array, the other raised, pointed._

_Snap._

“Did they get it?” Havoc shook ash past his knee, white against the mud. “Must have, right? Razor Wind and Flame in a confined space? Nothing's gonna survive that.”

_An inferno summoned with a single spark. The ferocious heat, searing all of them. More screaming._

_And the sense of something running, a darkness, a shadow, uneven as it shed burning chunks of itself, skittering away, fleeing back under the mountains._

Swallowing made Hawkeye's throat hurt. It was still raw from being so close to the fire and all this talking was aggravating the pain. “They got it,” she managed to say, reaching for the canteen the medic had left her, “But it still got away.”

Havoc watched her drink, horror mounting with every second that he thought about what she'd just told him. “It's  _ still alive _ ? Even after –” He took a long, long drag on his cigarette. “I miss the days when I'd have been able to say 'that's impossible' and it'd be anywhere near close to the truth.”

She could only agree.

They sat for a while, watching people mill about. A couple of stretcher parties went by, blankets drawn all the way up. What would the families be told, Hawkeye wondered, when the General came to write the letters explaining the empty places at their tables?

Thinking about that made her realise just how long she had been huddled there, letting numbness hold her in place. That would not do. She was neglecting her duty. The medics had told her to give it a minute before she got back to work and it had been at least ten.

“I should find the General,” she announced, twisting around for her jacket.

“Shouldn't be hard,” Havoc said, nodding over her head.

Mustang was walking towards them, though compared to his normal confident stride, 'shambling' might have been a better description. There were bandages wrapped around his hands and so many rips in his uniform that it was amazing the sleeves had not fallen off. She made to jump to attention but he shook his head, very slightly. He stopped a couple of metres from the truck. No.  _ Hesitated _ .

Afraid to come any closer.

“Havoc,” he said, voice completely flat, “Lieutenant Dakota . . . I shouldn't have taken him in with me. I shouldn't have taken anyone in. I'm s –”

“General.” Hawkeye had heard Havoc sound that genuinely serious maybe three times in all the years she'd known him. “Tobin was a soldier. Not the bravest I ever met but he knew what he signed up for. You walk out on a mission, you know you might not see what kills you. We all know that. And you're not psychic, boss. Which is the only way anyone could have seen the  _ giant freaking monster _ coming.”

Counterarguments bubbled up on to Mustang's lips. All the reasons he should have seen further, known more, acted quicker.

“He's right,” Hawkeye said, heading them off, “What matters now is what we do next.”

His eye flicked between her and Havoc. His expression shifted. Not accepting what they were saying. Just tabling the fight for later. He pulled himself a little straighter. “Yes.”

Hawkeye gave up on her jacket and stood up in the blanket, marshalling herself into a proper at-ease stance. Havoc followed a second later, grumbling something under his breath. If she had to guess, it approximated to 'bad as each other.'

“I've ordered Colonel Lockheed to collapse the mine as soon as he's sure all the survivors are out.” Under normal circumstances, the General might have said it idly, even playfully. Grand-scale destruction of state property as an amusing aside. But circumstances were not normal and the flatness clung to his tone like glue. “Once that's done, this site is to be quarantined until further notice. Havoc, I want you to take charge of the task-force. Finish up the investigation in South City. Find out if any of the smugglers know anything about something living in the tunnel.”

“I'll practice my straight face. What about you?”

Mustang touched the edges of his bandages. “Captain Hawkeye and I will return to South Command with you, then travel north.”

She blinked slowly at him. “Heading where, exactly?”

“That's classified. I'll explain when we get there.”

Now not only was the tone wrong, the words were as well. There should have been a proper cover story, a deft explanation that was just true enough not to be a lie. That was the game, the dance they performed when they needed to discuss sensitive matters in the open. Blunt statements of secrecy were too obvious, too dangerous. If the General was that far off balance –

“Sir, you should sit down.”

“What? No, I'm fi –” His defiance turned into an ominous sway.

Two steps and Havoc was perfectly positioned to catch him if he actually fell. “Yeah, come on sir. You can leave the clean-up to me. Take a seat and make sure that Hawkeye stays put. You know she'll just wander around and aggravate that wound if you don't.”

Mustang managed to summon the energy for a scowl. But, inversion of reality or not, that did the trick. He allowed them to guide him on to the end of the truck and Hawkeye resumed her seat beside him.

It was possible the General was simply wrung out with the effort of alchemy outside his normal expertise. Or that he, like her, was still trying to process what had happened and fit the monster in with the rest of his nightmares.

But there was a look in his eye that set off a whole different set of alarm bells and when she glanced down, it was to see his hands beginning to shake.

She exchanged a worried frown with Havoc. “Do you need us to fetch the medic, sir?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” The shade of the General's usual manner faded quickly. “Just . . . tell me something.”

“Sir?”

“Back there. In the tunnel. Did you see . . .” He made a fist, as if crushing the rest of the question before it could get out. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

And in the silence that followed, all Hawkeye could wonder was how big a lie he had just told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Why the hell do I always do this to Mustang? I mean, I know why – he's too damn powerful when he's actually functional so breaking him is necessary for not having the plot burnt down before it starts, plus, you know, the guy is a nervous wreck pretending he's a chessmaster. But still. Whyyyyy?  
> \- Also – actual flashback to when Edward's life was pleasant because hey, why settle at breaking one person when I can kick the entire cast to bits. Sigh. This is what I get for writing FMA fan-fic.  
> \- Hawkeye does not deserve any of this, as bloody ever. On the up side, I am writing a surprising amount of interaction between her and Havoc, which quite an interesting dynamic.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Comfort in Lies' by Holy Moly & The Crackers


	15. For Want Of Something To Do

“And then you feed the median and ulnar connectors through here. The structure itself keeps them out of the way and stops them snagging on anything.”

“Reinforcement and tidiness all in one. Nice.”

Winry grinned, though it wasn't as if she could take all the credit. “Most of this is straight out of one of Dominic's designs. I just adapted it.”

Doddie gave her a look that mingled disbelief with exasperation. “Just adapted the work of an engineer with, what, fifty years more experience?”

“More like forty.”

“Because that makes it so much less impressive.”

She rolled up the blueprint and bopped him on the head with it. “So're you too awed to put this thing together or what?”

He caught the end of the paper and tugged it from her hand. “Rockbell, I may be a mere mortal next to you, but  _ you _ have never had to follow one of Garfiel's designs. Compared to that, this will be a walk in the park.”

“I've always thought he had really neat handwriting.”

“He does. He also never writes one annotation when fifty will do. I've seen him have whole arguments with himself over the diagram for a single connector.”

“Wow. OK, yeah, I'm not that bad.” Gesturing to the workbench, she stepped aside. “Have at it. Everything should be labelled but shout if –”

The phone cut her off. Doddie bounced the blueprint against his shoulder. “I'll manage.”

Patting him quickly on his other shoulder, Winry dashed across the workshop and snatched up the receiver. “Rockbell Auto-Mail, Central branch. How can we help?”

The line crackled, giving her a second to guess at who might be calling and why. This early, an emergency seemed more likely than not.

“ _Hello?”_ a voice said through the static,  _ “Is that Winry Rockbell?” _

“Uh, hi? I mean, yes, it is.” The voice sounded familiar but she couldn't quite place it.

“ _Oh – good! It's Russell Tringham. I need to speak to Ed – it's urgent. Is he there?”_

Something very cold wrapped around Winry's heart. “No, he's not. He's out of town again. What's wrong? I thought you were in Ishbal with Al?”

“ _I am. I mean I – is there any way I can contact Ed? I really need to talk to him.”_

“What is it? What's happened?”

He gave her another second to imagine everything terrible under the sun.  _ “There was an attack. A group of – I don't really know, Ishbalan radicals or something like that. The Scarred Men. They started shooting up Dahsan, coming after the people at the conference.” _

The icy bands got tighter. “Are you all right? Is everyone –?”

“ _I'm fine. We're all fine, mostly. It's all over now. Only – Winry, Al's disappeared.”_

“What do you mean, he's  _ disappeared _ ?”

“ _Just that – after everything calmed down, we couldn't find any sign of him. We . . . look, the Ishbalans think the Scarred Men took him. A bunch of them got away, you see, so it's the obvious conclusion.”_

Winry crushed the phone cord in her free hand. “It . . . sounds like you don't believe it's that obvious.”

“ _Yes . . . well . . . I don't have long so I can't explain everything, but I've gotten information that it's more complicated than that. I don't know what it means but – can you get a message to Ed? He needs to get down here as soon as –”_

Someone else's voice came across the line, anxious and indistinct.

“ _Winry, I'm sorry, I need to ring off. I'll try and call again when I can. Just – please tell Ed what's hap –”_

There was a clatter, more voices, speaking over each other, and then the phone went dead. She kept it pressed to her ear, as if that might magically bring the connection back.

“Rockbell?” Doddie was frowning at her, an armature rod forgotten in his hands.

She did not answer him right away. She was too busy thinking through her options, trying to plan and not get swamped by fear for Al's safety. He was strong and brave, a powerful alchemist, a skilled fighter. Better to concentrate on how best to help him, never mind that he was basically her kid brother and how much it would hurt if he –

“Doddie, would you watch the shop for me?”

“Of course.” he said instantly, “Anything you need.”

Dropping the receiver back on its cradle, she ran to throw a jacket over her overalls. There was no time to change properly. She'd make do. “I'm going up to Military Headquarters,” she called out as she headed for the front door, “Don't know how long it'll take. There's not much in the appointment book, though, so hopefully –”

“I'll manage, Rockbell. Go do what you have to do.”

“Thank you!” Leaving the door to clatter shut behind her, Winry started to run.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They'd stopped somewhere in the Manasser Foothills, at a station serving a forest and not much else. Plenty of people got off, so it must have been one of those places people from the cities went hiking. Or else the local logging industry attracted a lot of visitors. Ed didn't know for sure. What he  _ did _ know was that the train was going to be pulled up long enough for him to mount a raid on the platform snack stand, and this was good.

Some time between jumping down from the coach and coming back with the biggest bag of honey-spiced hazelnuts the stand would sell him, it did occur to him that indulging in sweets might count as improper conduct for a Military officer. Normally that wouldn't have worried him in the slightest – in uniform or out – but his new travelling companion seemed the type who cared about that sort of thing. Hopefully buying her a bag as well would go some way to smoothing things over.

Wolff eyed the nuts he handed her dubiously. “Th're gud,” he told her around a mouthful.

Picking out a couple, she popped them between her teeth and chewed thoughtfully. “Haven't had these since I was a kid.”

“I never had 'em before I came out west.” Ed swallowed. “That mean you're from around here?” 

She grunted. “Pendleton. About as west as you can go.”

“Never been. What's it like?”

Tipping the bag, she shook out a handful of nuts and began to methodically pick them off. “Surprisingly boring for a city in contested territory.”

“Contested? Oh, right, that was –”

“Part of Creta until the last border war. Yes.”

The carriage doors slammed and the train heaved into motion. Ed watched the station slide away behind a curtain of trees. “Was it boredom that got you studying alchemy?”

“No.” She paused, hand half-raised. “Though it might have had something to do with joining the Military.”

“Yeah?”

“It was a way out.”

Which was apparently all he was going to get. He filled the space where additional information should have gone by gobbling down more hazelnuts. They really were delicious. He'd have to find an excuse to visit wherever that had been more often.

“So why  _ did _ you take up alchemy?” Asking about that seemed to go OK last time, so . . .

“One of my teachers. Ex-soldier. Told me knowing some basic transmutations would be an advantage even if I wasn't aiming for the Programme. Everyone appreciates the cadet who can do instant repairs.”

“Makes sense.” There must be people all over the place who knew a  _ bit _ of alchemy. Ed had heard plenty make that claim over the years, usually after he'd done something big and show-offy. Surely some of them were telling the truth. “But you ended up a State Alchemist anyway?”

“Turned out I was good at it.” Folding the top of the bag over, Wolff pushed it away. Not one of nature's sweet-scoffers, then. She brushed spice from her fingertips. “What about you? What made a twelve-year-old decide to become a State Alchemist?”

Ed chewed the next mouthful longer than was strictly necessary.  “I did it to help my brother,” he said eventually. That was safe and neutral.

“He travelled with you for a while, didn't he?”

Unless people started thinking about it too hard. “You've done your homework.”

“Even if I hadn't . . . you  _ are _ the notorious Edward Elric.”

“Notorious?” He laughed. That was the best thing he'd heard all week. “I like that better than 'famous'.”

“Was becoming a folk hero part of the plan?”

“Not mine. Just sort of happened.”

What he was starting to think was Wolff's signature glare came back, though only for a brief visit. “You were in it for the research opportunities?”

“The State had all the best books.” Though never the right ones, of course. Never the ones that would have given him actual answers or solutions.

“So military service was just the price you paid for admission to the libraries?” If that wasn't a challenge, it was only because she was working very hard to keep it that way.

“Guess so,” he said lightly. He did not ask if that was going to be a problem. If she wanted to start something, she was going to have to be the one to do it.

“And yet you've twice chosen to defend your certification with combat trials.”

“Did I mention the part where Mustang spent three years yanking my chain for shits and giggles? He had a fist to the face coming.”

“But still . . . you support his agenda, don't you? Demilitarising State Alchemy?”

“Sure I do. The Programme's done more than anything else to hold back research that could actually help people.”

Wolff reached for the abandoned bag of nuts, stopped, curled her fingers up. “Basque Grand. Zolf Kimblee.” She folded her arms. “Roy Mustang. I understand. The things they were called on to do . . . or took it into their heads to do anyway . . . a negative impression of the whole institution isn't unwarranted.”

Big words, sounding forced. Like what she really wanted to do was call him stupid for taking Iron Blood, Crimson and Flame at face value.

Ed put his hands behind his head. “You left a name off that list. Tim Marcoh. His body count's just as high as the rest. Maybe higher. He rendered people down and compressed their souls into a power source. A step on the way to a Philosopher's Stone. Enough to give the Military the edge over anyone who got in their way.”

Was that giving away State secrets? He'd lost track of what was public and what the government had buried. Still, the carriage was mostly empty and it held her attention, so he didn't particularly care.

“And you know what? He was a good scientist. Driven. Talented. Hungry for knowledge. He could have done amazing things, made a lot of people's lives better. But that's not the path the State pushed him down.”

Her eyes were drilling into him again. “There's no excusing the crimes of the old order.”

“Yeah, but that's not my point. Didn't matter if they were crimes or not. The State said it was OK. Somewhere along the way, whenever anyone asked if they  _ should _ be murdering all those people or transmuting all that auto-mail into some guy or whatever, all those alchemists got told – yeah. It's fine. Stop worrying and do your job.” Ed dipped his head. “I've got friends who've been soldiers for a long time. They've all had to deal with orders that came down, telling them to do things that can't be excused. And they obeyed them. Because the Military said it was fine. Or because they'd get shot if they didn't go along with it.  _ Obey the Military _ . That's still rule number one. Still gives us a reason not to think about what we're doing and just go along with whatever we're told.”

“And what about  _ be thou of the people _ ?”

“A motto's just nice words if the rules don't back it up.”

Too flippant? Too much? He still couldn't tell if this was leading to some massive argument about the righteousness of soldiering or if she was going to call him a hypocrite for signing back on.

What kind of person was Krista Wolff? You couldn't gauge personality from service history but it would have been real swell of Mustang to have given him the chance to try. At least then Ed would have had something to go on, beyond first impressions and what she wore out of uniform. Which was a sharply pressed jacket and slacks, with a shirt and tie like she worked in a bank.

“Does that mean you don't think it's possible for us to live up to it?” Another challenge pressed into neutrality.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Does it matter when one order can turn us into the weapons everyone assumes we are?” Even if it never came, the suspicion would always be there. The memories of Ishbal, the rumours and the revelations. The mud stuck, no matter how hard you worked to keep clean.

And he didn't for one minute believe that order wouldn't come. Sooner or later, someone was going to test the not-killing condition he'd put on coming back – and there were plenty of ways to be a weapon of the State without going full Kimblee on anyone.

Wolff . . . actually looked pretty upset by what he'd just said. Only for a second, another blink-and-miss show of emotion. But it was there and so were the puzzlement and consideration that followed it in quick sequence.

“I thought that way too for a long time,” she said when she'd got her face locked down again. Ed did his best to follow her example and hide his surprise. She must have noticed all the same, because she gave a gentle snort. “I put off applying for a couple of years even after people started saying I should try. I didn't think I had it in me to be true to the spirit of being a State Alchemist above the reality everyone muttered about. So what was the point?”

That made him wonder how long she had actually been in the Military. Or studying alchemy. It went without saying that she was older than him, but he guessed she must be a few years younger than Hawkeye.

“What changed?” he asked.

“Someone showed me it  _ was _ possible to live up to the motto. And I figured that if a kid could do that, I didn't have any excuse not to try.”

Oh.

_ Oooooh _ .

“You applied because of  _ me _ ?”

A small, embarrassed smile softened her face. “More the idea of you. The rumours and stories about a teenaged State Alchemist single-handedly fighting corruption throughout the east. Gave me the push I hadn't realised I was waiting for.”

Ed did not have any fucking clue what to say to that. He ended up settling for, “Glad I could help.”

“I don't know if I should be thanking you. You set an incredibly high bar for the applicants who followed you.”

“One you got over anyway.”

“I did.” There was no modesty in that. Good. Passing the exam was nothing to be modest about. “Just in time for everything to change.”

It'd be dumb to apologise for that, right? Not like he got much of a choice in _when_ he'd faced off against Dante – or when Al blew all her plans straight to hell. “Clearly you coped.”

“Of course. Not much point in anything else.”

“Heh. Can't argue with that.”

They both lapsed into not saying much after that. That was probably OK, Ed decided. He wasn't sure who'd won the argument, if that's what it'd been. But they'd proved they could talk to each other well enough, so he contented himself with a few more handfuls of hazelnuts and took it as a good sign when she did the same.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“But you've got to have some way you can get hold of him, right?”

Sheska and Denny shared a look like they each wanted the other to have the answer.

“Well –”

“Err –”

Winry scowled at them both.

“The thing is, he told us to make sure no one in West City knew he was coming,” Sheska explained, “We could get a message to West Headquarters but that would completely give the game away.”

“Ed's not going to care about some dumb mission when Al's in danger!”

That came out too loud and Denny quailed a bit, which might have been funny if he'd been in the least bit intimidating to begin with. “Yeah, but we don't even know where he's going to be staying! He's going to send a telegram once they've found a hotel. He didn't want to book in advance, just in case.”

Winry knew that already. Ed had explained before he left. He was going to get Sheska to pass on the message, rather than calling the shop like he'd normally do. Didn't want to risk an unsecured line. Which, as someone who'd once tapped into what was supposed to be the most secure line in the country, she absolutely understood. It made sense.

It just wasn't very  _ helpful _ .

“You know what train he's on though. Can't you just call one of the stations on his way?”

“I – I mean, sure, we could.” Sheska was hovering by the phone on the desk under the windows. Not, Winry suspected, to pick it up at a moment's notice. More likely so that she could throw herself over it in the event Winry made a grab for it. “But if you got the conductor running down the train asking for the Fullmetal Alchemist, everyone'd be talking about it when they get off in West City and then who knows how many people will find out he was going there!”

She was right, but that wasn't very helpful either.

“OK, OK.” Winry scrubbed at her hair, a gesture she was half sure she'd picked up from Ed. “Look, can you guys at least tell me how the Military's going to respond to what's happened in Ishbal? I mean, they must know about it, right?”

They played another round of 'you tell her', 'no you!' “Uh, well, there wasn't anything about it in the daily reports,” Denny said cautiously, “You think they're trying to keep it quiet?”

“Sergeant Fuery might know.” Sheska put a fingertip to her chin. “But I tried to call him earlier and the line to General Mustang's office was all tied up. Maybe they're already busy with it?”

“I bet Colonel Fiat would know. Guess it's a shame we're not working for him any more.”

“What are you saying?! No it's not!”

“You really think Fiat would know?” Winry demanded.

“Well . . . he always seems to know everything that's going on –” Horror made Sheska's eyes bulge. “B-but you can't go and ask him!” Behind her, Denny started making frantic no-no-no gestures.

“Why not?” The head of Investigations scared the life out of the other two but based on her own experience, the worst Winry could say about him was that he was kind of pompous. “Lieutenant Ross still works for him, right? She'll let me in.”

“I mean, yes, but –”

“Al could be dead already!” she shouted, the fear suddenly overwhelming. They didn't have time for this messing around! “I'm not just going to stand here and do nothing!”

Not again.

Never again.

“I can get to Investigations on my own, but I swear I'll knock the teeth out of anyone who tries to tell me I shouldn't be there. So if you don't want that to happen – come on!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Maria Ross blinked in surprise as the three of them marched in. Well, Winry marched. Sheska and Denny sort of scurried in after her.

“I need to see the Colonel.” Winry told Maria before she could say anything.

The lieutenant looked over at the partition. The blinds were drawn, protecting the privacy of whoever was in the inner office. “He's in a meeting –”

“I need to see him _right now_.”

“It's Al,” Sheska said urgently, “He's in Ishbal and –”

Maria's eyes widened. “Wait, was he in  _ Dahsan _ ?”

“You've heard about that? We weren't told anything!”

“Yes – at least, the Colonel knows about it –”

“Great!” Winry strode determinedly towards the inner door.

“But you can't –”

The door opened before Winry got there, forestalling the argument. Colonel Fiat, as prim and composed as she remembered, offered her a polite smile. “Miss Rockbell. Delighted to see you again. What we can do for you this AM?”

“I need to talk to you about the attack in Dahsan.”

“Of course. Please, come in. Captain Focker and I were about finished.” He held the door for her.

A burly soldier with oblong glasses and a brush cut rose from one of the chairs, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked askance at Fiat.

“Focker, meet Winry Rockbell, auto-mail mechanic and long-time friend of the Elrics.”

The captain murmured a greeting and Winry did her best to contain her impatience.

“I think we can call things done here,” Fiat said smoothly as he walked past her, “The AT-50s just need filing with the Provost Marshal and then everything should be A-OK for the Seversky case.”

“Sir.” Focker beat a hasty retreat to the outer office.

As the door closed, Fiat settled himself behind his desk and waved Winry to the seat Focker had abandoned. “What do you know already?”

“A group call the Scarred Men attacked the conference in Dahsan and Alphonse Elric is missing. What do  _ you _ know?”

“Straight to the point! Well, leaving aside your already having information that is strictly need-to-know, not much more. The Scarred Men are an Ishbalan sect that sprang up five or six years ago. Highly anti-Amestris, focused on trying to overturn the Reconstruction Government in favour of something more retributive. Not gained much traction but appeals to a certain strata of disaffected youth. Has perpetrated attacks along the border and on people perceived to have been tainted by Amestrian support. This would certainly have been the most dramatic such attack.”

Winry was a second from snapping that she didn't need the whole damn backstory when his choice of words brought her up short. “ _ Would _ have?”

“Details are still sketchy but appearances are that the Scarred Men were anticipated. The local authorities were on the scene PDQ and had things wrapped up in double-quick time.”

“Did someone warn them about the attack?”

“Hard to say. They aren't being terribly forthcoming.”

“But no one was killed, right?” She needed to be sure that was what he meant.

“Indeed. And many of the Scarred Men are now in custody. Leaving aside those who escaped in the confusion, the only question mark appears to be the location of young Mr Elric.”

“I heard the Ishbalans think the Scarred Men took him.”

“It's the likely scenario. If that is the case, he is in very grave danger.”

“I know.” Winry bit her lip. “But I heard from someone who was there that it wasn't them.”

“Russell Tringham?” Fiat chuckled at her astonishment. “I've seen the list of attendees and paying attention is my job.”

“Well, I don't know much more than that. You'll have to talk to him. Will you? Talk to him? What's going to happen?”

“If your question is, what is the Amestrian government going to do about an attack on its citizens on Ishbalan soil, followed by the possible kidnap of one of those citizens by a hostile group . . . ? At the moment, nothing.”

“ _ Nothing _ ?!”

“It's a delicate situation. Both governments have reason to be cautious. Besides, until it's determined what actually happened to Mr Elric, there's very little that can be done.”

Winry shot to her feet. “But you have to do  _ something _ !”

Fiat did not turn a hair. “Miss Rockbell,  _ I _ would not be doing anything in any event. This department handles internal affairs, not foreign relations. It will for the Prime Minister and the Assembly to decide upon a response. I will be happy to direct you to the appropriate channels –”

“No. That's OK.” She gave him a quick bow. “Thank you for your time. I should be going.”

“One moment,” he called before she could reach the door, “What do you plan on doing next?”

“I . . .” Did not have the faintest clue. But she wasn't about to say that. “I'm going to get a message to Ed. He needs to know what's going on.”

“I understand Major Elric is currently travelling. West City, yes?”

“That's right.” How did Fiat know that if Ed was being so secretive about it? But if he did . . . then maybe . . . “Um. Do you know how I could contact him without going through the command centre there? Or . . . getting his name spread around? I can't just call his hotel because I don't know where that's going to be and by the time I find out, he could be in the middle of . . . I just don't want to waste time.”

He studied her in silence for a moment. Then he picked up a pen and held it between his forefingers. “You could take the message personally.”

“But I wouldn't be able to catch up to him until the day after tomorrow! That's too long!”

“What about the  _ morning _ of the day after tomorrow? The early morning, to be precise.”

She frowned at him. “There's no train that gets there that quickly.”

“No passenger service,” he corrected, “A mail train would do it.”

“You . . . you could get me on one?”

“I could pull a few strings. If you would like me to.”

It was tempting. If she could actually be there, there'd be no of a risk of the message going astray or not getting passed on with enough urgency, or of Ed assuming it wasn't actually that important and could be put off while he chased down a giant alchemical cheese or something –

And sure, none of that was especially likely and Ed wasn't going to dismiss an urgent message from her if it ran 'call home now, it's about your brother'. But . . .

If they could save even one hour . . .

“Why would you do that for me?” she asked.

Fiat nodded, like she'd just passed a test. “An exchange. You tell me everything your friend Tringham told you. I pass that on to my superiors, maybe even follow up with him personally.”

“I thought it wasn't your department.”

“That doesn't mean it won't be to my credit. You have someone to mind your shop? Take any further messages?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell them to pass those on to me as well. Or to Major Elric's office; they can reach me that way.”

“So you're trading an express ride to West City for inside information that might make you look good to the higher-ups?”

“Well put, Miss Rockbell!” His neat little beard stretched around a satisfied grin. “What do you say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Colonel Fiat's triumphant return brought to you by plot necessity theatre!  
> \- I don't really have a lot to say about this one. It's mainly character development and joining plot threads together. Hopefully enjoyable all the same!  
> \- No specific song for this chapter, but let's stick 'Rock-Paper-Scissors' by Katzenjammer in here, which feels like it vaguely fits.


	16. In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Pardon the delayed chapter update: I am shattered. Not been sleeping well, cabin-feverish etc.  
> \- On a related note, I'm definitely going to have to put this fic on hold come the next intermission. My writing streak has not resumed at sufficient speed to do otherwise.

“ _Cadet Hawkeye?”_

_It took her a second to respond. Exhaustion ate at the corners of her eyes. She just wanted to slump there and stare into the campfire until sleep came. Even dragging herself to a tent was too much effort. A bowl of gruel sat beside her, barely touched._

_But someone addressing her by name meant they expected a response. And since practically everyone in the camp outranked her, that expectation was basically a demand._

_The man looking down at her had a boyish, curved sort of face topped with an unruly mess of hair. The shadows under his eyes matched the soot smeared across his cheeks. “That's you, right?”_

“ _Yes sir. Can I . . . help you?”_

“ _You already did.” Shuffling around the fire, he dropped on to the box next to her then glanced sideways with eyes as black as his hair. “If not for you, I'd be dead.”_

_Recognition hit her as she connected a distantly seen figure with the man beside her. “Major Mustang – uh, I –”_

“ _Oh, don't . . . at ease, cadet. Please.” He hunched his shoulders, huddling inside his dust coat. “I just wanted . . . to say thank you, I suppose.”_

_An Ishbalan warrior, intent on avenging fallen comrades. The major's bodyguards, lulled by the devastation they'd just seen him unleash. If Hawkeye had spotted the movement a second later –_

_But she hadn't. And a bullet to the neck ended the man's life before the major even noticed he was coming. Hawkeye dimly remembered Mustang looking up at her after the fact. Most of her attention had been on the body, making sure the threat was over. Then she had been straight back to scanning the major's surroundings, on the guard for more attempts on his life._

_That was her duty. Feeling anything, about the man she'd killed or the one she'd saved, had to wait._

“ _I was just doing my job, sir,” she whispered, “There's no need to thank me.”_

_The blood painted an arc across a fallen wall, drawing an arrow towards the corpse._ Here is your work. Here is the life you have ended.

_Did that warrior have a family? Had bullets taken them as well? Or had it been the firestorm, conjured at the hands of the man in whose defence he had been killed?_

_Those hands were trembling now. Just a little. “No need to thank you, huh?”_

“ _My assignment was to take out any threats to your life while you worked. A soldier doesn't expect to be thanked for doing their assigned duty.”_

“ _I suppose not.” He dredged up a smile, mouth working uncertainly around the expression. “It must be nice though, doing a job that people are grateful for.”_

“ _The Military stands in defence of those who cannot defend themselves,” Hawkeye said automatically, unable to put sincerity into the words._

“ _Be thou of the people? Is that why you joined?”_

“ _It . . . it was the best of very few options.”_

_The shaking was getting worse, spreading up the major's arms and into his shoulders._

“ _Are you cold, sir?”_

“ _Huh?” He blinked. Grimaced. “Better that than . . .” He held his fingers out to the fire then snatched them back as if the weak, sputtering flames had scorched him. “No, I was just thinking . . . we all do our duty. It's what we were trained for. Do as we're told. Don't question. Just act. All responsibility passed up the chain.”_

“ _I am responsible for every bullet I fire.” It came out more sharply than she intended, far more so than was appropriate. She was almost too tired to care. “I do not pass that to others.”_

_Mustang laced his hands together, swallowed, then looked away. His whole body shuddered. “But you still follow your orders.”_

“ _I . . .” Quite suddenly, as if it were a perspective trick, she realised that however many ranks above her he was, the man sitting next to her couldn't be more than a couple of years older. Were he any ordinary officer, he would probably still be a cadet himself. “Sir . . .”_

“ _Major Mustang?”_

_They both started. A lieutenant stood over them, wary and deferential. Mustang cleared his throat. “Yes?”_

“ _Colonel Grand wants you at the volunteer hospital right away, sir.”_

“ _The hospital? What's he want me to do, heat up their morning tea?”_

“ _Uh . . . I don't know, sir.”_

“ _Since Major Yao's death, you are the second highest ranking officer when Major Kimblee is in the field,” Hawkeye pointed out. As if he really was another cadet, forgetting the basics._

“ _Right. Should keep you around to remember these things so I don't have to.” Mustang smiled more convincingly this time. He got up and scrubbed at his face, maybe to get rid of the soot, maybe to try and wake himself up. Then he shrugged off his coat and held it out. “In case_ you _get cold.”_

“ _Uh . . . thank you, sir.” She took it, not knowing what else to do._

“ _Carry on, cadet.”_ _He walked off and Hawkeye watched him go, not looking away until the bustle of the camp had swallowed him up entirely._

  
  


* * *

  
  


She found the General sitting at one of the benches outside the inn, reading a small black volume that, to the untrained eye, bore all the hallmarks of a Lothario's address book. Like her, he was in civilian clothes and as always, he looked smaller for it. The hat he had worn on the train sat abandoned on top of their single suitcase, leaving little to distract from the left side of his face.

There were only so many options for obfuscating your identity when you only had one eye and most of those involved a different kind of eyepatch. Where the usual one hid the damage entirely, this one was smaller, leaving far less to the imagination. Even now, years after the fact, there was a part of Hawkeye that turned queasy on seeing that starburst of scarred-over flesh. Which was silly. She'd spent weeks getting intimately familiar with it, dressing it and redressing it, willing it to heal faster. That should have bred contempt or at the very least, indifference. Somehow it hadn't.

Perhaps because it reminded her of how she had failed to protect him.

Or perhaps simply because she so very rarely saw it any more. The last time she had seen Mustang without his normal eyepatch . . . well, that must have been when they were stranded on Yok Island for the night, woozy and wrung-out after being flung between worlds.

Funny. That was also the last time they'd spent any time together out of uniform, excepting official parties which did not count. And it was certainly the last time they'd been Roy and Riza, rather than General and Captain . . .

Mustang looked up from his notes. “All sorted?”

“Yes. I've booked us in.”

“As?”

“Mr and Mrs Bertrum.”

It was not quite an eye-roll but it came close. “Married again?”

Sitting down opposite him, she shrugged. “It seemed the simplest option with only one case.”

“Should I be transmuting some rings?”

“I doubt that will be necessary.”

“No. I suppose a place like this gets plenty of 'married' couples who don't quite have all the right trappings.” His smirk drained away like dishwater down a plughole. “We can pick a car up at ten tomorrow morning. It's a six hour drive so we should see about arranging provisions.”

He still had not told her where they were going and she had not asked. That was fine. She trusted him, even off-balance, to have the right goal in mind. She'd help him get there and do whatever was needed to be done when they arrived. “We passed a grocers on the way from the station. I'm sure we can get what we need.”

The little black book disappeared into his jacket pocket. He grabbed his hat and stood up. “I suppose we'd better take our luggage to our room.”

“They're serving supper in half an hour. The menu looked like it might be quite pleasant.”

He nodded distractedly, then made a visible effort to focus on what was in front of him. “Shall we dress for dinner, Mrs Bertrum?”

“Unfortunately I didn't pack your tie and tails, Mr Bertrum.”

“Ah well.” He spread his hands. “I'm sure we'll make do.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Noah was proud of the way she transmuted the lock open. Isolating the bar without accidentally fusing it to the rest of the mechanism was tricky, but not only did she manage, she did so without borrowing any techniques from Ed or Al's memories. The idea of flipping the bar around had just come to her while considering how best to break into Edward's room.

She was somewhat less proud of considering that in the first place. If she'd had the slightest doubt about what she would find inside, she would never have done so. But she saw no other way to move forward that didn't amount to ignoring what was going on and that was not something she was prepared to do.

Edward had been acting oddly since they arrived in West City. After nearly jumping out of his skin on the train, he proceeded to spend the rest of the day looking over his shoulder as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. Based on how nonchalant he'd tried to be about heading off on his own the next morning, he thought she hadn't noticed. And maybe she would have been less suspicious if he hadn't arrived late for lunch with marks on his clothes that she recognised as meaning the wearer had recently shinned up a drain-pipe. But that, his general evasiveness and his refusal to answer questions about how he was with anything other than 'I'm fine' . . .

By the time dinner rolled around, Noah was both convinced that something was wrong and determined to find out what.

She'd come up to his room to ask him outright. Since they had only just parted in the hotel's dining room, he could not have been in there for more than five minutes. Yet there was not the slightest response to her knock and no light coming from inside.

Sure enough, when she pushed the door open, the room was empty and the window was slightly ajar.

Were there perfectly innocent explanations for disappearing out of third-floor windows? Perhaps if you could and just wanted to get some fresh air. But if it was that, why not go out of the front door?

The shirt Edward had been wearing lay abandoned on the bed, which answered that question while raising a whole host of others.

Noah crossed to the window and peered outside. The evening was drawing in but it was not quite dark yet. The street below was a cul-de-sac, quiet and empty. The hotel was one side of an 'n' of connected buildings and there would have been little reason to walk down there unless you were delivering something to one of the many back doors. There were, however, lots of drain pipes.

She looked up quickly, scanning the rooftops. Was that movement? A shape disappearing over the edge . . . ?

For minute, she stood there, thinking furiously. Then she spun on her heel and set off at a run.

  
  


* * *

  
  


West City was much older than Central and, to the south of the river at least, it showed. The buildings were narrow, with steeply pointed roofs and tall, thin chimneys. They put Noah in mind of the old parts of Munich and she hunched her shoulders at the memory of darker times.

She turned her head to and fro as she walked, searching the eaves of shops and houses. There was nothing out of place, no golden-haired figure clambering over the tiles with inhuman skill. If she kept going along the way she was, she'd soon hit the riverfront. Perhaps then Edward would be forced down to ground level so that she might see him and catch up.

Or, equally likely, he had already gone off in a completely different direction. She was only guessing, after all . . .

 _Why_ hadn't she just asked him over dinner? That would have been the sane, sensible thing, yes? Rather than waiting and playing some hopeless game of hide and seek. She could say it was always easier to draw people out in private than in crowded bars – but a more honest answer would be that she was reluctant to pry. An odd thing to feel when she was so happy to break and enter on a suspicion yet there it was. She still found it hard, talking to people directly.

Things would have been so much easier if she could just have touched him and known everything.

She walked a few dozen yards further before realising the emotion with which she had considered the loss of her clairvoyance was not pain or loneliness but pure irritation. She nearly burst out laughing. Two years ago, not being able to absorb another person's thoughts had been a paralysing and terrifying change. Now it could be nothing more than an inconvenience.

Time really did heal all wounds.

Over the river, the factories were still belching smoke, heedless of the late hour. They loomed against the darkening sky, the new leering at the old from across sluggish waters. There were ordinary houses among them but those were dwarfed by towering foundries and steel mills. This was how modernity had come to West City, trampling across half of it and blowing soot at the rest.

Noah stopped, looking along the street that fronted on to the river. The view being what it was, things weren't much busier here than at the back of the hotel. A few couples, taking shortcuts between more populous roads. Some men sitting on the retaining wall to smoke. Just enough people that it did not feel lonely; not enough that it felt safe.

She hesitated for a moment then turned right, walking purposefully from one pool of street-light to the next. There was a railway bridge a couple of blocks down that way: if she saw no sign of Edward by the time she got there, she would hurry straight back to the hotel and make him tell her everything in the morning.

Assuming that he was going to be there in the morning. As far as she knew, he did not have any money on him but that wouldn't stop him leaving the city if he wanted. He could climb on top of a train or sneak into the back of a lorry or just start walking. Noah was not sure how much he actually needed sleep or food. He could easily out pace anyone chasing him.

A train whistled and started across the bridge, clanking and banging overhead, seeming endless until, abruptly, it was past. She watched its tail-light flicker between the girders, a diminishing red gleam.

There was no sign of Edward. No sign of anyone at all now. A hundred homunculi might have scampered by on the rooftops and she doubted that she would have seen them. It was too dark. She wondered why she'd ever thought she could catch up to him. Wondered too if she should just let it drop, even if he did come back.

She turned around, sighing.

“Isn't it a bit dangerous to go wandering around a strange city at night?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She brought her hands up, ready to clap or fall into a fighting stance. The voice was familiar but it had come out of nowhere. There was still no one nearby and –

She looked up. Edward perched atop the lamp-post beside her, somehow balancing in a crouch on its pointed iron hat. Had he been there all along? No, he couldn't have been. He must have climbed up while she was distracted by the train – or dropped down.

“Yes,” she said, somehow keeping her voice steady, “So why are you doing it?”

He sprang from the lamp-post and landed in front of her. Without his shirt, she could see the black leather covering his torso, liquid tight against his skin. There were red marks to either side of his navel, livid circles and lines that ran down to disappear beneath his belt. They were the exact same colour as the ouroboros on his left shoulder. As he rose to stand eye to eye with her, he flexed his bare arms, fists tight. “I'm an inhuman monster. What's your excuse?”

“My travelling companion jumped out of a window in the middle of the night.”

Edward lifted a finger. “Technically, I climbed. And it is barely late evening.”

Noah put her hands on her hips and tried to glare at him with the same force that, say, Winry mustered when Ed decided to push his luck.

It must have worked because Edward looked away and crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing at his biceps. “Which does not make much of a difference, I suppose.”

She let her face soften. “I was worried. That's all. If you don't want to tell me what's going on, I understand.”

His posture changed in an instant. “Sometimes I wish you people would be a bit less understanding! At least then, resenting you all would . . .” He sighed and kicked at the pavement. “I didn't want to involve you. It wouldn't be fair. You're not part of any of this.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“All right, maybe that's a daft thing to say. I just meant, you're not here for . . . look. The thing is . . . those people who found me? After I came over, through the Gate? I think the place they were keeping me was in this city.”

It would not have been Noah's first guess at a reason but Edward's actions suddenly made a great deal more sense. “You're sure about that?”

“No. I don't have much to go on beyond what I heard on the train. The one that took me to Central City, I mean. I couldn't see out but I remember the points outside the station. And I think we went over a bridge a little time before that. I was listening to the trains going over this one to see if it jogged my memory.” He pointed up.

“And did it?”

“I think so. Yes.”

They both turned to look across the river.

“How long was it between you getting on the train and going over the bridge?” Noah asked.

“Not very. Fifteen minutes? I didn't have a watch and we were going slowly at first, so I'm not sure how _far_ that means.”

“But you think you got on somewhere over there? Don't you?”

“It's logical, isn't it? The place I was . . . it was big and the windows I saw were all skylights. Could have been a factory, or part of one, all dressed up like . . . whatever it was supposed to be.”

“Did you hear machinery? When you were there?”

Edward stiffened. “No. I didn't. At least . . . nothing very loud.”

“That doesn't mean you're wrong,” she said quickly, “It just means you were probably somewhere that wasn't very busy most of the time.” She smoothed down her skirt. “That'll help narrow down where to look.”

For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then he gave her a long, hard stare. “There's an 'us' in there, isn't there?”

Drawing herself up, she looked him in the eye. “I told you, I choose to be who I want to be. And I want to be someone who helps others when they need it.”

“You're here to buy books, Noah. Not hunt down . . .” He grimaced. “These people are _dangerous_. And I am pretty sure the Elrics will flay me alive if I let anything happen to you.”

“Yes. But they're not here. Can you look me in the eye and tell me the odds will be better for you if you try to do this alone?

He wanted to, plain as day. But it would have been a lie so in the end, all he said was, “Let's talk about it in the morning.”

Which she was going to hold him to, even if she needed to get up at the crack of dawn to stop him sneaking off again.

* * *

  
  


Despite any malicious rumours to the contrary, Hawkeye hadn't had many opportunities to share a bed with General Mustang. Whenever they had to play the part of lovers or spouses in the past, it was always a purely cosmetic affair. Going through the motions with a receptionist. A dinner date in which they pretended to whisper sweet-nothings and be absorbed in each other's eyes. At worst, a rented room set up as a sniper's nest and not getting any sleep for purely professional reasons.

Which was not to say that she had no experience of falling asleep next to him. Even leaving aside embarrassing incidents such as the night on Yok Island and that time they managed a simultaneous collapse at their desks while wrestling with the annual budget, she'd been the one to nurse him back to health after the fight with Bradley. She had spent long hours sitting beside him, listening to his breathing and watching him twist with unrelenting nightmares, until all the determination in the world could not keep her eyes open.

So, while lying on the same mattress as her commanding officer was an unusual experience, she could say with absolutely certainty that he was not getting the rest he needed.

Naturally the fact she was awake to make this observation meant she was not either. Was the General also seeing the monster in the mine every time he closed his eye? More than once, Hawkeye found herself staring into the corners of the room, hand straying to the gun under her pillow. Foolish really. It had not helped much before.

She rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable angle.

“Not sleeping?” Mustang's eye glinted at her over the bolster he'd insisted they put down the middle of the bed.

She shifted again so that she could face him. “It's all the rage, I hear.”

Even in the dark and only able to make out half his face, she knew his smile. “And you know how I hate to be unfashionable.”

“All the same . . .”

“I know.” He turned on to his back and pressed a hand to his forehead, as if acting out a swoon. “I just keep thinking – have I become like Colonel Lockheed? Content with my lot and never moving forward? I had such dreams once. A clear goal, something to strive for. But now . . . I feel like I've settled in place. I'm not sure I even  _ want _ to go up another rank.”

All right. If that's the path he was going down . . . “You used to be the first in the office every morning.”

“Now I'm always the last.”

“That's not unusual. For a senior officer.”

“You mean an old one.” He twisted to look at her again. “That's what it is, right? Age catching up with me. Every day becoming harder to face through all the aches and pains . . .”

Pains in the body and the soul. Accumulated sins. She understood. More, she suspected, than he usually realised. “Or perhaps you simply changed to fit a new situation.”

“Becoming sedentary as a stage of my life-cycle?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“So what  _ did _ you mean?”

She took her time in answering, mind too sluggish to be sure she was finding the right words. “When we were on the front lines, you were prone to . . . bouts of generosity. You'd share your rations with your support troops, fix things for them without needing to be asked.”

“I could afford to. Command was always more kind to the alchemists than the regular troops.”

“I also remember that half the time, I couldn't tell if we were protecting you or if you were protecting us. But after Ishbal, you were less quick to show that side of your personality.”

“I needed to focus on my career.”

“Yet you still found time to look after so many people on the way up.”

“People I could use. People who'd be useful later. You're mistaking seeking an advantage for honestly doing good.”

“Or you could simply be making excuses for having found different ways to express who you are. I can't believe anyone who thought of people as mere tools would ever have let himself be dragged out on a midnight ghost-hunt for the sake of his staff's nerves.”

He had the decency to chuckle at that. “I just wanted them to shut up about haunted warehouses.”

“My point is, you're still the kind of person who would do something like that, however much your routine might have changed again.”

Turning again, he hunched up until all she could see was his shoulder. When he spoke, it was only just loud enough to hear. “I know what you're trying to say. But I don't think you're right.”

“And I don't think this is what you're actually worrying about.” Because he was an impossible, aggravating man who would quite happily wallow in misery over impending middle-age if it meant he could pretend the real problem didn't touch him.

“Go to sleep, Captain,” he said, mumbling it into his pillow, “We've got a long journey tomorrow.”

She considered pressing the issue. She considered climbing over to the other side of the bed and physically shaking him into one of his rare bouts of absolute, unvarnished honesty so that he'd just  _ tell her _ what was going on in his head.

She sighed. “Yes sir,” she said, putting her back to him and trying once more to let her mind go blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I feel I should be protesting that I do actually ship Mustang and Hawkeye? I just . . . can't bring myself to actually make them kiss. It's just not them.  
> \- I am massively indebted to [Dailenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dailenna/pseuds/Dailenna) who has been writing some superb manga-verse Royai focusing on Hawkeye's backstory. If I have not out-right cribbed, I have at least been massively inspired. I was always going to include some stuff fleshing out their 2003verse backstory (while the tattoo and Berthold Hawkeye could be fitted into that version, I personally don't want to) but after reading Order 3066, things clicked into place in a most satisfactory fashion.  
> \- For those as obsessive about aligning the details as I am, the flashback was originally going to be set at night, but Mustang says he got orders regarding the Rockbells in the morning then shot them that night, so this is now placed in the very early hours of that day.  
> \- It does belatedly occur to me that at least one of the people that Noah came into contact with probably knows how to pick locks. But since I think motor skills wouldn't transfer as well as knowledge, transmutation would still be the easiest and quickest option.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Dancing In The Dark' by Bruce Springstein for clangingly obvious reasons


	17. Pieces Out Of Place

“What a fine mess this all is,” Rufina said from the doorway, jolting Russell out of the panicked spiral of 'what-ifs' in which he'd been stuck for the past hour.

That is, he'd been stuck in that  _ particular _ spiral for an hour. He'd been more or less panicking for a day and a half straight, ever since a gunman burst in on the party.

His first reaction had been to break the guy's arm, since apparently almost getting himself shot while  trying to con his way into some books had taught him nothing whatsoever about restraint. What was it Belsio always used to tell him? There was no point in trying to be clever if you didn't stop to think.

There'd been nothing clever about how he'd brought down the Scarred Man. Just a whole lot of dumb luck and the sinking feeling that, once again, his reaction had been precisely wrong. That feeling stuck with him for the rest of the evening. True, there'd been a brief respite when he'd calmly insisted to Rick that they should check all the reasonable places Al might have gone before jumping to conclusions about his absence during the head-count. But then they'd found the naked man in Al's bed and the first thing that popped into Russell's head wa s how unfair it was that the wrong Elric should turn out to be interested in men.

And if that wasn't conclusive proof that he was no good in stressful situations, he didn't know what was.

He lifted his head from his notebook, which had become a very poor pillow after he gave up on actually making notes in it. Work was impossible when he was too busy imagining all the horrible things that might be happening to Al. And all the horrible things Ed was going to do to him for letting Al get kidnapped.

Neither Rick nor the man from Al's room had been coping much better with confinement to one of the common rooms. Rick kept pacing about aimlessly, abandoning his own books in an increasingly precarious pile on the table. Felix meanwhile barely moved from his chair and gave the strong impression of impression of trying to turn invisible.

Rufina folded her arms . “And what a fine set of bottle-breakers you are, making it worse left, right and centre.”

“But  _ docea _ !” Rick protested, lurching towards her in an aborted flail, “I was just trying to help!”

“I know, but there are times and places where being helpful is not the same as being smart. If you were told that no calls are being allowed, might you have stopped to wonder if there was a good reason for that?”

Russell stood up to defend the kid. “Hey, I'm the one who persuaded him to let me use the phone. You should be blaming me.”

“Oh, don't worry,” she told him, “There's plenty of blame to be going around.” Her gaze fixed on Felix. “ And as for you – God be my witness, I swear if you thought half as much with what He put between your ears as what He put between your legs, I'd have nothing left to teach you! Seducing one of our guests! Do you have the slightest idea of how fortunate you are that it's me coming to see you and not Cato?”

Felix nodded glumly, not meeting her eye. Then, with a flash of something like defiance, he muttered, “Not like it took much seducing.”

Well. That was . . . something to know. Surprisingly, Rufina didn't look the least bit angry at him. She just rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Maybe that's for the good. If he'd just disappeared outright on us, things could be a lot worse.”

“Did something happen?” Russell grasped at the ghost of a hope. “Has there been –”

Rufina held up her hand. “Don't get too excited. Did Chief Marn tell you about the Scarred Men's camp? It wasn't far outside the city, apparently. Abandoned now. Looks like the ones who got out of the city went there then kept going.”

“Has he sent people after them? Do you know where they're going?”

“He's put the best we've got on the trail.”

“And is there any sign of Al?”

“No.” She heaved a sigh. “Like I said, without Hot-Blood over here, we'd not have the faintest clue what happened to him. And neither would the Amestrian Government.”

Russell frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that whoever you called lit a fire under someone in Central City and now we've got official dispatches and what-not coming down on us. I'm not blaming you – you're worried about your friend, you wanted to get help, I understand. It's just stirring up the kind of trouble that Marn and the rest wanted to keep a tight lid on, is all.”

“They're not going to send soldiers are they?” Rick's voice quavered. His hands went to the locket that hung under his shirt.

“No, Ishbala be praised. But they want to know everything immediately. Which is why, Mr Tringham, I would like you to escort Felix on a little trip.”

“I – what?”

Felix's eyes narrowed. “Are you joking?”

“If you think I would, at a time like this,” Rufina huffed, “you've really not been paying attention. Some Amestrian muckety-muck has been demanding all the details right this minute and the Elders voted to throw them a bone in the hopes it'll stave off anything more hands-on. You're the bone.”

“But – that's –” Russell floundered. “That's not fair. And I can't just leave! What if –”

Rufina came closer and despite his height advantage, her physical presence was more than enough to shut him up. “Mr Tringham. Russell. You strike me as an intelligent and caring young man. I think you can imagine what is going through all our heads. When Rick asks if there are soldiers coming, you understand what he's thinking, yes?”

He nodded numbly, remembering his silly worries about accidentally setting off another war with a horrible sense of perspective.

“Exactly. Anything we can do to convince your Prime Minister that he doesn't need to start accusing Ishbalans – any Ishbalans – of harming one of your national heroes, we are going to do it. Even if it means throwing one of our own to the dogs.”

“Even if it means convincing one of your own to throw  _ himself _ to the dogs,” Felix corrected bitterly.

“Would you really refuse to go?”

His head jerked up, jaw tight. “I  am  _ Ishbalan _ ! If this is how I can protect my people –”

“Exactly. So you see,” Rufina said to Russell, “we're sending this numpty out, alone and unprotected, in the hopes that he can get people who very much still hold our lives in their hands to think before they act. And because your country puts the powerful an unspeakable distance from those they rule, he's got to go all the way to Central to talk to someone important enough to make those kinds of decisions.”

“You . . . you don't know for sure that the people in masks Felix saw weren't Scarred Men.”

“Nope. But there's a chance they weren't and that'll have to be enough for now.” She touched his arm. “They've not asked for you to go. But it makes sense, since you were the one who found him afterwards. You can back up that part of the story. And I think you'd be more use doing that than hanging around here, worrying. What d'you say?”

What would Ed do? If their positions were reversed and it was Fletcher who was missing and he was stuck in this hostel with Russell a hundred kilometres away?

Well, he'd never just have sat around, would he? He'd have been doing something brilliant and igneous that would have solved everything.

But failing that?

He'd have done the right thing.

Russell swallowed. “OK,” he said, “I'll do it.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


General Grumman dropped the receiver carelessly back on to its cradle and grinned toothily. “So that's all sorted.”

“The Ishbalans were happy to agree to it?” There seemed little to be gained by hiding his surprise so Fiat did not bother.

Grumman's grin did not waver. “Oh, I'm sure they weren't. But they must see some advantage in it because they're sending the witness up here just like the Prime Minister's office suggested.”

The man was damnedly hard to work out. His jovial old duffer act was flawless. He'd made quite the show out of having 'forgotten' why he'd sent for Fiat and then practically pantomimed his way through the call with his government contact. It was hard to see what was gained by such theatrics, when no one in their right mind would believe anyone capable of coming out on top after so many upheavals could be a fool.

Still, as far as Fiat was concerned, so long as it kept him in the loop, the general could caper all he wished.

“If you'll permit me, sir, seems a bit inefficient to ship the boy all the way to Central. Can't he be met half-way?”

“It's such a shame Mustang's out of town right now,” Grumman said, blithely ignoring the question, “That young man is quite brilliant in these kinds of situations.” He twiddled the end of his moustache and then turned serious. “The Prime Minister has explicitly instructed this be handled with the utmost delicacy. There'll be no news reports, no mobilisation and no ministers heading inexplicably to the East.”

“I see. Then why bring a witness here at all?”

“Well, I'm sure I couldn't say. Can you?”

Naturally. The head of the Military could never be heard to second-guess the Assembly. “They have to do something. If this isn't kept on the QT forever then one day they'll have to answer questions about what they did when one of the Elrics went missing again.”

“Ho ho ho! Yes, Mr Haeker is so very conscious of the headlines, isn't he? That could explain it.”

Did he think otherwise? Fiat saw no polite way of asking. “Anything else I can assist you with, General?”

“Oh, my word, you've helped me quite enough already! Won me all sorts of points in the right places! I wouldn't dream of keeping you away from your duties any longer.”

Then, just as Fiat was lifting his hand to salute and accept the dismissal, Grumman added, “By the way – good work on delaying the other Elric's involvement. I know he can't be kept in the dark indefinitely but I'd say your intervention means his friends will take slightly longer to contact him than if they'd decided to throw caution to the wind.”

Interesting. It had occurred to Fiat that keeping the Fullmetal Alchemist out of a delicate diplomatic incident might be for the best, but his offer to Miss Rockbell had been driven chiefly by the need to maintain security on Major Elric's current operation. The Bradleyists had to be neutralised for good and the investigation into Anna Helmont's watch seemed the best opportunity for doing so.

Still, if the general wished to interpret his actions otherwise, who was a lowly colonel to disagree?

“Just trying to handle things with delicacy, sir.”

Grumman chuckled again and waved him to the door.

  
  


* * *

“You understand what you are to do?”

The warrior nodded, hiding her annoyance as best she could. She wished for the mask, so that she might be spared making the effort. Though likely it would not have made any difference. Her grandfather always seemed to know what she was thinking anyway.

His mouth turning down with irritation. “I do not ask because I doubt you are capable of the task. I ask to be sure you know what the task  _ is _ .”

She gritted her teeth. “I am to follow the traitor and watch him. If he comes close to discovering this place, I am to divert him away.”

“But  _ only _ if that is so,” her grandfather said sharply, “You must not confront him otherwise.”

“I understand what you meant.”

“Yet I hear the anger when you talk of him. You call him traitor, even though he was never truly one of us.”

“He turned against the master!” Why try to suppress her emotions if he was going to hear them regardless? “That deserves vengeance.”

“He will suffer with the rest when things fall into place. That is enough.”

It was not and she wanted to tell him so. But that would have meant justifying herself and she knew all she could offer was fury at having convinced herself for even a moment that Edward March deserved to stand in the master's service.

Her grandfather would tell her that dwelling too much on past mistakes invited future ones.  _ Learn and move on _ . And she would see the disappointment in his face as he said it, at having to repeat another lesson.

“I will not let my anger draw me out,” she said, with the conviction that she wanted to feel, “I will not fail you. I will not the fail the master.”

He held her gaze for an excruciating few seconds then grunted. Another test passed. “Your duties here will be covered –”

The curtain beside them twitched aside. “There you are.”

“Alchemist Cassandra.” Her grandfather greeted the woman politely, even though being interrupted never failed to irritate him. The warrior envied him that control.

“I need to –” Cassandra broke off, frowning at the warrior as if confused to see her wearing something other than her normal armour. Then she dismissed her entirely. “I need to talk to you about what happened in Ishbal.”

“Everything went as planned. We secured the boy. He is –”

“Chained up downstairs, pointlessly trying to transmute his way out of his cell. I know. But apparently someone was there when you took him?”

“That is so.” How could he be so calm? How did he bury his feelings so effortlessly when addressed in such a tone? Was it merely age or something more, some aspect of his personality that could not be learned by example?

“And you left this person  _ alive _ ?”

“I did.”

Cassandra waited a moment, clearly expecting more and displeased when it did not come. “Wasn't that dangerous? If they could identify you . . .”

“I doubt they were in a state to recall anything useful. Would you have me kill a bystander for simply being in the wrong place?”

“Why was there even a bystander in the first place? I thought you people could pretty much turn invisible.”

“Circumstances changed. The master is not displeased with the outcome.”

“Well he can be . . . mercurial, can't he?”

The warrior tensed, came close to snarling. This woman might dress as one of them, might have sworn herself to their cause, but she was still an outsider with no right to insult the master.

“It makes no difference,” her grandfather said, fingers flicking an order to relax, “The mystery will still act as a lure.”

“A corpse would have done just as well,” Cassandra huffed, “and would not have been so great a risk. This whole plan is already too full of risks.”

“You believe so?”

“You do not?”

Still seething, the warrior watched her grandfather tilt his head to the side, considering. He reached out to the table beside him and picked up the photograph he had put down there earlier, handing it to Cassandra. “This was taken in the riverside industrial district earlier this afternoon.”

The alchemist scowled at the blurry image. “The homunculus that looks like Edward Elric?”

“I believe so.”

“If he's here –” The photograph crumpled in her grip.

“We are mounting a watch. He will not interfere. And I have sent sentries to the station to make sure none of his allies arrive undetected.”

“I know it would have been hard to maintain surveillance on the creature without alerting the Military but this is . . .” Cassandra made an effort to smooth out the creases. “How long ago was this actually taken?” She checked her wrist-watch. “If it's nearly seven o'clock now, then how many trains have arrived since –”

“It was taken by one of the automatic cameras, about three hours ago. Those devices are not as prompt in reporting as a living warrior would have been.”

“Yes, well, a manpower shortage is why I'm – wait. Are you trying to make some point about how risks and unexpected obstacles are inevitable? Because I will remind you that it was the master who decided, on a whim, to involve this creature in our business. If he'd just left it to drown, things would have been far simpler.”

“My point is that if you have done your work well enough, it will not matter if Edward March tracks us all the way back here. Just as it will make no difference that I was observed in Ishbal. What you perceive as a plan full of risks is simply a plan that accounts for risks. Expected or not.”

Cassandra's lip curled. But the next thing she said was, “Very well. If my work is so critical, I'd best get back to it, hadn't I?” She returned the photograph. “I trust you will show the same dedication in containing this unexpected risk.”

“The Ash Guard serve the blood of the Emperors.” And it was to the warrior that he looked when he spoke. “And there can be no failure in service to the divine.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mustang's estimate for how long the journey would take was generous in the extreme. He had not accounted for several pertinent factors – the disrepair of the roads, the obstruction or loss of way-markers,  _ four _ herds of sheep – and so six hours gradually ticked into seven and then eight. By the time they finally stopped in front of a formidable set of gates, Hawkeye was almost past caring what actually awaited them within.

Almost.

She eyed the road beyond the gates, curving up-hill into thick woodland. “There?”

“Yes.” Mustang threw open the passenger door and climbed out. A minute later, the chain holding the gates shut was in his hand, wisps of smoke curling from the broken ends.

“Will the owners mind?” Hawkeye asked once the car was through and he had finished closing the gates behind them.

“I doubt it,” was all he said.

They drove on, the trees crowding in to steal the lingering sunlight. Once upon a time, she supposed that the verges would have been kept neatly trimmed. Now the weeds were long enough to brush at the sides of the car.

Frowning, Hawkeye tried to place the patterns that had been worked into wrought-iron of the gates. “I didn't recognise the crest back there.”

“No reason you should have.” The General was staring fixedly ahead. “The family stopped being important a long time ago.”

Despite the neglect and seclusion, the house that came into view at the end of the drive was a grand affair. Hawkeye pulled the car up in front of the main doors and let the engine idle for a minute, searching the many windows for any sign of movement. Nothing.

“So.” She put on the handbrake, turned off the ignition and retrieved her gun from the door. “Where are we?”

Mustang exhaled in a long, gusty breath. “Better if I show you.” He got out and waited for her to do the same. Then he began to walk, not towards the imposing portico, but across the lawn that stretched along the side of the house. “Grumman said it would be this way.”

Wondering what on earth they were getting into this time, Hawkeye followed. Nothing in Mustang's attitude indicated he expected danger but she kept her gun at the ready all the same. The mansion's gardens, with their rampantly overgrown flowerbeds, only added to her growing sense of unease. Had the General not quickened his pace into a determined march, she would probably have pulled him to a stop and demanded the explanation before they took one step further. As it was, she could only trail after him in a stew of uncertainty, biting her lip to keep from calling out.

The lawn was cut into different levels, descending as they got over the back of the hill. On the very lowest level, artfully concealed from the house by manufactured contours, was a single stone structure with a canted roof. After blinking at it for a moment, Hawkeye realised she was looking at a mausoleum in the old style, long since abandoned to a steadily rising tide of moss.

A neat row of headstones stood beside it, working outwards from most decayed to least. Mustang slowed and stopped in front of the newest-looking ones, a matched pair, scarcely weathered at all by comparison.

“Here,” he said as Hawkeye approached and pointed.

The script on the stone was clear and clean, easy to read. 'Iris Miranda Bradley – nee Arnhardt' stated the last marker. 'Selim Tomas Bradley' said the one before it.

“Daughters, by tradition, weren't interred with the sons,” Mustang muttered, as if this was what needed explaining, “And I guess he wasn't one of the family, not really, so even though she insisted he be buried here . . . well. The Assembly wouldn't let her put up a marker to the Führer, of course. Same reason they basically put her under house arrest. Couldn't risk the symbolism.” 

Hawkeye didn't know what to say.

“I tried see her once. After . . . everything. Grumman gave me special dispensation. Said he understood.” He bent down, fingers brushing the top of Mrs Bradley's headstone. “I wanted to . . . explain. Apologise. Or maybe just give her a chance to hate me to my face. But I couldn't go through with it. I got to the gate and . . . couldn't go another step.” Another long, long sigh. “Then everything got too much and by the time I came back from the north, she was gone. Some fever she didn't try to fight off.”

“Sir. Why are we here?”

Anyone who hadn't known him as long as she had might have mistaken the rigidity in his shoulders for determination, rather than a desperate attempt not to start shaking. It took him a couple of tries to get any more words out.

“The thing in the tunnel. It was a homunculus. One that looked like Selim Bradley.”

“But it wasn't –”

“I don't know why or how, but when I was inside it, it – he – showed me Selim's face. I suppose it could be a trick. But if it isn't . . .”

With considerable effort, he made himself face that second-to-last headstone. Hawkeye did the same, a sick, swirling feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“If it isn't a trick,” the General said, “we're going to need the means to fight him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- A chapter I did not expect to write, but one that works to set up several bits and pieces I wouldn't have otherwise.  
> \- Plus it gave me the chance to write more Grumman, which I always enjoy.  
> \- The last part . . . yeah, let's just say this is one area where I'm leaning hard into the 2003!anime being the sad, bad world.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Pawn' by The Hard Ground.


	18. The Means Of History

“ _You do good work, Black Fire. I'd never have taken you for a watchmaker.”_

_The curly-haired woman did not look up. In the light from the study window, the delicate clockwork before her glinted like a mass of trapped stars.“That, Silver Bullet, is because you are just as much a moron as the rest of them.”_

_The man standing behind her laughed softly. “Not enough of one to be fooled that you've changed careers. Though this is a step up from scratching booster arrays in our pocket-watches.” He tilted his head to the side. “Still seeking absolute power?”_

_With a growl, the woman threw down her tweezers. “Crowley, is there a reason you are cluttering up my house? Or did you just feel like annoying someone today?”_

“ _I came to say goodbye.” He brushed down the front of his long dark coat, fingers playing with the trim. Silver-blonde hair cascaded across his face as he ducked his head. “That's all.”_

_She turned back to the desk. “Tremendous. Do close the door on your way out.”_

“ _Anna . . .”_

“ _We are not friends,_ Jack _ . We never were.” _

“ _Perhaps not. But you shared your family's books on human transmutation with me. Surely that makes us more than just comrades-in-arms?”_

“ _Useless trash. You were welcome to them.”_

_Crowley's eyes grew distant. He took a deep breath. “Maybe you're right. It . . . didn't work.”_

_Anna reclaimed her tweezers. “What a shame, who ever could have seen that coming.”_

“ _Did you ever try caring about anyone other than yourself, Black Fire?”_

“ _No.” She began to assemble another layer of clockwork. “Now get to the point before I remind you how I earned that title.”_

_Reaching inside his coat, Crowley withdrew a leather-bound notebook. He placed it on the edge of the desk. “My research. Combustion, matter acceleration. Consider it an exchange for those books. Hopefully this will be more to your taste.”_

_For a moment, it seemed Anna was not going to respond. Then, slowly, she reached for the notebook. “Why would you give me this?”_

“ _Because I don't need it any more. I'm going east. I've got an idea to . . . well. You know.”_

“ _Just like that? You were always Sopwith's favourite but even he –”_

“ _Oh, my days as a State Alchemist are over the moment I report back to Command. Sopwith wrote to me while I was back home. Warned me. I don't suppose you were the one who . . .?”_

“ _Betraying you would have required giving a damn. So you are going east to see if you can find the secret to raising the dead. Chasing the Philosopher's Stone now?”_

“ _I don't think so. Not exactly, anyway. But I doubt I will be coming back.”_

_Anna's fingers drummed on the book. She picked it up, weighing it in her hand. “I suppose I should be grateful you are leaving this with me.”_

“ _Don't try. You might strain something.”_

“ _This is everything worthwhile you ever did. You would really throw it all aside in favour of some Orphic quest?”_

_Crowley summoned the ghost of a smile. “I pity you, never having known love.”_

“ _I pity you for having done so.” Anna put the book down. “You can see yourself out.”_

“ _Of course.” He gave her a courtly bow. “Happy watch-making, Black Fire.”_

_She did not watch him go. But as the door closed him, she let out a sigh. “Safe travels, Silver Bullet.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


Major Elric's source hadn't been wrong about the state of the house. It was hard to tell in the dusk whether the roof had fallen in due to fire or rot, but result was the same: an unsafe ruin, poking around in which would be inadvisable.

Wolff watched Elric take a hesitant step through the front doorway. Presumably to someone of his calibre, the chance of falling masonry was a minor concern. Or perhaps he was really that reckless.

It went without saying that he was not what she expected. No one could have lived up to so exaggerated a reputation. Still. The contradictions were confusing. He seemed at once supremely confident and shyly awkward, only with a more thoughtful manner than either trait suggested alone. He'd bought her sweets, gulping down some of his own with childish enthusiasm. And he'd talked of State-sanctioned atrocities with a weary resignation that belonged on someone far older.

“On the plus side,” he said, backing out of the building, “at least we didn't have to get over _that_ to find out it's this wrecked.”

_That_ was the inner wall of the factory complex, a towering barrier that put the fortifications of most military command centres to shame. It rose a couple of miles to the east of them, a girdle of spot-lamps allowing it to continue dominating the landscape as the evening deepened.

“You think they're building tanks out of solid diamond or something?”

Wolff caught herself considering how practical that would be. “It's likely just guarding against spies or thieves. Stops anyone scouting the place.”

“You're probably right. I'm still glad they only put in a normal fence back there.”

He'd transmuted them a staircase to get over it. Wolff had been anticipating the challenge of cutting through chain links and working around alarm wires, and he'd just clapped and sent a great cartoon step-ladder arching over the whole lot. When he folded it back into the ground afterwards, there was barely a mark to show where it had been. She'd never witnessed alchemy so effortlessly perfect.

It gave her a crawling sense of her own limitations. The last time she'd felt that so strongly, she'd devoted months to track training until she could out-distance anyone in the barracks, especially that one lieutenant who made marathon running look like an afternoon stroll. She doubted it would be as easy to close the gap with the Fullmetal Alchemist.

“Gotta say, I expected Michael was exaggerating about how little there was left.” Elric looked up at the broken roof with a peeved expression. “Guess not.”

“We should at least look at the remains of this laboratory you mentioned. Round the back, yes?”

He let her lead the way.

Picking through the former Helmont estate, Wolff experienced a pang of loneliness. She'd grown up in a town where the houses pressed tight together, with people on the street at all hours of the day. A home in the middle of empty fields like this was an alien concept.

There wasn't much left of the workshop. A few broken foundations and the rest of the brickwork scattered in all directions. Wolff switched on her torch, searching for powder burns or scorch marks.

“Wasn't explosives,” Elric said, casually reading her intentions, “Air-manipulation. He'd have created a shock-wave and . . .” He mimed the rapid expansion of super-heated air.

“Interesting.”

“The principle's simple but it's hard to do anything with it other than blow stuff down.”

“I'm surprised that's not got someone into the State Alchemy Programme before now.”

He ran a hand over the broken stub of a wall. “Yeah . . .”

She left him walking around what remained of the lab's floor-plan and went to survey the back of the house. Smashed windows aside, things were less damaged than at the front. There was even a half-rotted door still standing in its frame. It creaked inwards at her touch, revealing a half-metre of near-pristine hallway that ended in charred ruin and a collapsed beam.

“I'm going to do a full circuit of the main building,” she called out.

Circling the rest of the house did not take long. There were no further out-buildings and no more doors. She did find a big bay window, the room beyond more intact than the anything she had seen so far. Her torch showed little of interest though. An empty desk, a broken table, chairs cast on to their sides. No books or cabinets.

Wolff clicked her tongue and tried to imagine whereabouts a hidden room would have been best located. No. Better question: where could such a room have been put that the evident rampage would not have revealed its location?

The lights of West twinkled in the distance as she retraced their earlier path, painting the smoke into the illusion of a ceiling over the city. Lowering her gaze to the meadow in front of her, Wolff saw that what she'd first taken to be a bush halfway across was in fact a well, infested with creepers. Now she looked properly, she could make out the curve of the retaining wall and one side of the frame that still held up a quaint little roof.

She fiddled absently with the leather glove on her left hand, adjusting the bandolier that encircled her wrist. Shock-waves . . . the blown-in windows . . .

Elric had moved on to prodding a bare patch of ground some little way downhill. It stood out sharply amongst the long grasses. Burnt, perhaps?

“Did I misread what was left or was that built like an armaments factory?” she asked when she was close enough, jerking a thumb at the wrecked lab.

“What, thick walls and a cardboard roof? That's what Michael said.”

“Then I don't see how there could be another one like that hidden here. Unless it was in the house itself – an attic? Testing explosives in a cellar would be suicidal.”

“Yeah, but that wasn't her thing, was it? The Black Fire Alchemist burnt things to make poison gas, not make them go boom.”

Wolff mentally kicked herself. Of course. She'd read that in the notes he'd shared with her. She was letting what was in front of her eyes lead her without thinking it through. “Still. That would need a ventilated space, no?”

“Or the opposite. A space that could be completely sealed.”

Meaning a cellar  _was_ the most likely possibility. “You'd still need to be able to vent the poison when you were done.”

“Or filter it.” He was digging his toe into the soil, making it crumble around the tip of his boot . . .

She grasped his line of thought. “You think was caused by chemicals leaking out underground?”

“It's not recent and you have to burn ground real good to stop grass sprouting again. So yeah. I think so. I'm trying to work out how I can test that idea without knowing the state of anything below us. Can't just transmute blind 'cos I might bring it all down.”

Not unreasonable, given the rest of the house. “The Black Fire reaction still consumes oxygen though, doesn't it? And I assume it emits heat?”

Elric looked up, blinking. “Dunno. Never seen it in action on a large scale.”

“But if you were working with it, you'd want to be able to cool things down in a hurry?”

“Always a good idea with fire.” He cocked his head, strands of that ridiculous non-regulation hair falling over his eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

Wolff raised an arm and pointed towards the overgrown well.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Mustang suspected Hawkeye was pretty relieved that 'desecrate the grave of a ten-year-old boy' was not plan A. He certainly was. With any luck, 'breaking into the home of a dead woman and rifling her possessions' would work out swimmingly and neither of them would have to go near a shovel until they were a very long way away.

And why shouldn't it work? Mrs Bradley had always struck him as a keepsake sort of person and there could only be, what, forty, fifty rooms in the Arnhardt mansion? Simple.

_ Yes, _ he thought to himself as he made his way upstairs,  _ this  _ is _ the same tactical brilliance that left you looking like the world's handsomest pin-cushion in the Bradleys' wine cellar. At least you're getting consistent in your old age. _

Portraits of Arnhardts past stared disapprovingly from the walls. He tried not to take it personally. The aristocracy always looked like that in paintings, even when they were smiling. Take the one he was currently passing. It showed (according to the plate) Elena Arnhardt and Gervais Marn-Fraser, on the occasion of their betrothal. They would have been a sweet couple if the artist had chosen to depict them actually looking at each other. Instead they gazed directly out of the canvas as if to say, 'we know you're there, pleb, and we are not amused.'

It was possible that lingering resentment towards every ranking officer who ever dismissed him for a lack of breeding made him a tiny bit oversensitive on this point.

It was also possible that he was latching on desperately to anything that kept him from thinking about what he was doing or why he was doing it.

That was one of the better ways to survive horrific things, he'd found. Detachment. Distraction. It worked marginally better than trying to pretend those things were right and justified, and marginally worse than simply going numb and letting everything wash over him. As long as he did not stop to think about Mrs Bradley cutting a lock of hair from Selim's broken little body, or the fearsome strength with which the boy's doppelgänger had yanked his head back –

Damn.

Mounting the first floor landing, Mustang fell back on being very irritated with the whole situation. He was supposed to be scientist, not a witch! There was no rational reason for the mortal remains of a person to debilitate an artificial construction designed to resemble them. How could there be any causal connection? A portrait did not curl up in the presence of its subject did it?

Yet he'd paralysed Bradley simply by raising up the skull of the man in whose image he had been made. And Fullmetal said it did not even have to be that significant a piece of the body.

Mustang really did not want to be thinking about the metaphysical implications of that while poking around an abandoned old house. It was bad enough that even after turning on the dyspeptic generator they'd found in the stable-block, the lights barely illuminated the darkly-panelled corridors. Either the generator was as feeble as it sounded or someone had been thinking of the paintings when they installed the lamps.

(He was up to Hans Richter Arnhardt, an older gentleman with a bushy beard and a pack of hunting dogs. Mustang spent rather too long admiring how brushwork had captured the animals' posture. They looked like they had been very good boys.)

And now he was stalling. Better to start opening doors and get it over with.

One bathroom and an airing cupboard later, he found the first of the bedrooms. Everything was under sheets and the dust accumulated  on top made clear how long they had been there. A quick search turned up no personal items of any kind. A guest room, then. Or else someone had already stripped out any family valuables.

Was there anybody who could legitimately have done so? Back when he began climbing the Military hierarchy, Mustang had memorised as much as he could stomach of the top brass' linages, so he knew the Arnhardts were all but extinct. He wasn't sure anyone still owned the house. It hadn't seemed important enough to look into.

Like so many things he was starting to regret not knowing.

The coverings in the fourth room looked fresher. Lifting the edge of the sheet over the night stand, he discovered a framed photo, placed face-down. With a sigh that was half dread and half resignation, he turned it over.

The worst thing was how genuinely happy all three of them looked. King Bradley was the image of a proud father, hand resting on Selim's slim shoulder. The boy beamed delightedly, no doubt imagining himself very grown-up for wearing a suit. Mrs Bradley stood beside them, hands clasped demurely, simply content to be with the two people she loved most in the world.

One way or another, Mustang had taken both of them from her and she had died alone and unmourned, exiled amid a legacy that ended with her.

He replaced the photograph as he found it and shakily turned his attention to the dressing table. That was the most likely place for keepsakes, in a jewellery box or a drawer. Both receptacles were present, but neither produced what he was looking for. The only lockets he could find were empty save for more aristocratic portraits, withering contempt undiluted for being rendered in miniature.

What he did locate, amongst the various and sundry items that populated a well-to-do lady's dressing table, was Mrs Bradley's diary. The handwriting was unfamiliar but a few lines were enough to dispel any doubts that was what he held.

_'Another uneventful day. Laid fresh flowers. Must talk to the gardener about maintaining the lower paths.'_

_'Cannot seem to rise before nine. So hard to see the point in anything. Doctor Harris says I should find something to occupy myself, that it is not good to leave my mind to wander. He is probably right.'_

_'More visitors from Central today. Soldiers who used to work with King. I forget their names. J came with them of course. Said they wanted to make sure I was being treated well. They were very courteous and it was almost like old times. I miss him so.'_

_'J was here again. I don't know how he finds the time. He says he is very concerned about me and does not want people to think I am being mistreated. Brought his own doctor, who I did not care for. A horrible little man with a gold tooth, who smiled far too much.'_

That was some little while after Mustang's attempt to visit her. 'J' appeared frequently around that time, though with precious few clues to his identity. A relative, perhaps? Someone connected to the old order – or perhaps the new, it was hard to tell. Several pages later, the handwriting became shaky and after that the entries just . . . stopped.

He ran his thumb down the blank paper. No doubt there were clues in this book that needed to be put together. The edges of the events that explained the creature in the mine. But he could not bring himself to turn back and begin searching for them. Not yet. Not while reading the diary felt as much like grave-robbing as –

“Sir?” Hawkeye called urgently from the ground floor, “There's something you need to see.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Elric turned the creepers into a rope, clearing the well's mouth and providing them with the means to climb down in one transmutation. It was remarkably efficient and Wolff told him so.

“It'll do the job.” Leaning over the opening, he frowned at the glint of the water far below. “So, normally wouldn't say this, but . . . you'd better go down first.”

“Not a good swimmer?”

He curled his right arm. “No, but I sink like a pro.”

“Oh. Right.” He moved so easily, with barely any hint of machine weight to him, that it was easy to forget about the auto-mail. “Of course.”

They secured the rope and she tied the other end around her waist, making sure the knot was easily accessible. “Ready?” Elric asked, coiling up the middle part so that he could start playing it out. She thought about inquiring if he was sure that he could take her weight. He beat her to it by flexing his metal fingers and adding, “Don't worry, 'Fullmetal' applies to my grip too.”

The first couple of metres down into the well were bone dry. Wolff steadied herself against the side, trying to gauge the distance to the surface of the water. It was not really clear what she was looking for. A pipe would have sufficed to draw from the water source and feed whatever fire-extinguishing or refrigerating contraptions were needed in a covert chemical warfare lab. Evidence of that, then.

A little further and the shaft widened, the bricks giving way to rough stone. It looked like a natural cave. Was that normal for the area? She knew a little about the geology of western Amestris but not enough specifics to say for sure.

Well, normal or not, she was inside it now and the water was getting perilously close to her boots. “Hold it,” she called up to Elric.

Her descent stopped instantly. “You got something?”

Pushing against the damp rock to turn herself, she aimed her torch at the side of the cave. There was a fissure, wider than it first appeared, almost an archway . . . “I need to go down one more metre and then I'm going to start swinging.”

She caught hold of the opening on the second go and pulled herself the rest of the way. Elric paid out the slack at exactly the right speed. Her boots kissed the water and sank a hand-span down before hitting a ledge. Carefully, she tested her weight against it. It held and sliding her foot forward, she found that the flat surface stretched out ahead. She was standing at the opening of an honest-to-goodness tunnel.

A few minutes later and they both were, the rope tied off on a hook Elric formed out of the damp stone. He really was useful to have around. Wolff's arrays were nowhere near as versatile and she itched to know how he could shape so many different kinds of matter with equal ease.

The tunnel was narrow enough to force them into single file, but only a dozen metres long and the room into which the stream flowed turned out to be surprisingly spacious.

“How old do you reckon this is?” Elric asked as he stepped out of the water channel to join Wolff on a dry floor.

“Not sure. Could be as old as the house. Built to draw from the well without going outside?”

He made a non-committal noise, passing her to get at the doorway in the near corner. It opened on to steps leading upwards and was the only obvious way out.

Or – not quite. Wolff went to the end of the channel and crouched down, aiming her torch into the water. “There's a grating here.”

Elric was at her side in a flash, patting the wall. “What's the betting there's a secret door here? Because who'd just install a good lock when you can be fucking melodramatic?”

“Someone who wanted to keep an alchemist out. Or the Military.”

“Well, that's dumb. We're the first people who'd look for a secret door. Or just knock down the wall.”

“Here,” Wolff said, standing up, “Let me try.”

She dug into her pocket for a bag of rough sand and poured a generous helping into her left hand, then played with the canisters at her wrist to mix in streams of grey and black dust. Satisfied she had enough raw material, she closed her fingers and focused.

The array on the back of her glove lit and the sand turned molten. She ramped up the density as much as she could, then extruded the mass out into a long, thin blade, just the right size and shape for poking into the seams around a hidden door.

Elric stood back to let her take his place searching the wall. “That a particular kind of sand?”

“The canisters are different metals to strengthen my transmutations to combat standards. The bag's so that in a pinch, I can create a weapon without needing a ready source of earth.”

“Smart. My auto-mail's like that for me.”

She'd seen the pictures. A wickedly sharp blade extended from his right arm. “Must be useful for close combat.”

“Yeah. And there was one time –”

He broke off as Wolff's stiletto disappeared between two of the bricks.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hawkeye had found a wall. More specifically, she had heaved a dresser away from one of the walls in the kitchen to reveal a wide expanse of white-washed plaster. Had it been anyone else, Mustang would probably have demanded to know if he should be impressed by this. But this was Hawkeye and if she wanted him to look at a wall, he was damn well going to look at the wall.

The plaster flaked under his fingertips, a slight scaled texture more obvious to touch than sight. “Transmuted?”

“I've checked the entire ground floor and there's no door to the cellar.”

“There might not be one.”

“Then given the sound the floorboards make in here, I have serious questions about the hollow space beneath us.”

“Fair point.” He tugged on his gloves, forcing his voice to stay light. “Let's see what's behind wall number one.”

He was still not used to performing what the rest of the world thought of as 'normal' transmutations on a regular basis. The whip-quick nature of flame alchemy meant other reactions felt unbearably sluggish . It would take a lot more practice than he had time for to get comfortable switching between the two.

But a ragged hole in the wall was as good as a perfect doorway when it came to getting access to the stairs beyond.

“There'd better be a light switch down there,” Mustang grumbled, scowling into the opening and trying not to shiver when a draft came out of it.

Hawkeye said nothing, just drew her gun and moved to cover him as he started down the steps.

Neither of them stopped to question the sense of entering a sealed-up basement in an abandoned house. As responsible military officers who'd recently survived an encounter with a giant monster, they really should have done. Even if the cellar had been blocked off for a perfectly innocent reason, that reason could be 'it's unsafe.' But there they were, walking in without a word.

What was the point of having the conversation out loud when they both knew how it would go?

The cellar did not smell right. There was a chemical edge to the cold, earthy musk that got sharper the further down they went. At first, Mustang guessed disinfectant. Then he started to get the scent of whatever it was the disinfectant had been used to wash away.

He found the light-switch at the bottom of the stairs. The lamp stuttered into life, the illumination spreading through –

A rich person's cellar, more or less. A big underground room, solidly built, with the obligatory wine-racks down one wall. There was no wine though. There was not much of anything at all. No barrels or boxes, just a wide expanse of bare flagstones and some wooden partitions. All very anticlimactic, if one ignored the foulness in the air and the many, many stains on the floor.

Some of them seemed to be earth or mud. Some of them were definitely blood.

Mustang heard Hawkeye inhale sharply. He stepped off the stairs and began circling the room, taking care to watch where he was putting his feet. The blood was _everywhere_ but the darker patches were concentrated in the middle of the room . . .

“Is that –?”

He followed her gesture and the unfinished question towards some faint chalk marks, pale and deliberate amongst the blotchy chaos. A curving line and symbols that tugged at Mustang's memory. Alchemy, obviously, but where had he seen those specific – ?

His chest tightened and he must have made a noise because Hawkeye looked at him with concern. All he could manage was a silent shake of his head. They were close to the partitions now and he went numbly to see what lay behind them.

The wooden walls created four narrow spaces parallel to the end wall, each extending about a third of the way across the cellar's width. The first one was piled with metal stands and spot-lamps, every single one smashed and twisted up. There were buckets too, dregs of something noxious dried at the bottom.

Heaps of powder and dirt filled the next two, different colours and textures swirled together. Mustang reached down to a blotch of white and snatched a pinch between finger and thumb. “Saltpeter,” he said dully. It might just be fertiliser. The rest might just be . . .

Just dirt? In a bloody cellar marked with symbols he remembered from those crazed days after Ishbal, when he dreamt of undoing all the murders the state had demanded of him?

No. He knew what this was, what it meant. Just as he knew what would be behind the last partition. It made sense, in the logic of a waking nightmare.

Undersized or not, the coffin was beautifully made. No expense had been spared. Even with Bradley dead and disgraced, his child had been buried with the trappings of his status. And then someone had come along and dug the boy up so they could play god.

Knowing what he was going to see should have prepared him. Taken the sting out of it. Made it easier.

Instead, all the barriers Mustang had been putting up in his head since he'd escaped the mine came crumbling down. His knees buckled. His vision contracted. His arms fell limply at his sides. Dimly, he was aware of Hawkeye speaking to him, fast and worried.

He opened his mouth to lie and tell her he was OK.

But he couldn't make a sound.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Once they found the release mechanism, the hidden door opened smoothly, a counter-weight swinging it up and over their heads. Elric watched it rise with a disdainful expression, as if personally offended by its existence. “Ten thousand says this place is full of booby traps.”

“That's pessimistic.”

“Trust me. Something this pointlessly fancy? It'll be spike-pits and rolling boulders the moment either of us sneezes.”

“I'm not sure there's room,” Wolff said, shining her torch through the opening, “but I'll do my best not to sneeze, just in case.”

For all that it was buried under a burnt-out house, Anna Helmont's hidden laboratory was almost distressingly clean and tidy. There were no skeletons or glowing vats, just the vaguest of musty smells and a sense of deliberate abandonment. The fittings were old-fashioned and Wolff was oddly delighted to see one of those cabinets full of tiny drawers, each labelled with the symbol for a different chemical.

Less delightful was the iron door at the far end, which was heavy and ugly – and hopefully well sealed if that was where the Black Fire Alchemist had performed her experiments.

Elric produced a pocket camera and began to take methodical snapshots of what they could see through the entrance. Wolff looked away to avoid flash-bulb blotches across her vision and the base of the trick door caught her attention. There were scratches where it had dragged against the floor, some of them fresh, some of them definitely not. It seemed to her there were also some in the middle of the two extremes, though not obviously enough to count as evidence.

Reaching the limit of what he could usefully capture without going into the room, Elric put the camera away and took a step forward. When no spike-pits or boulders presented themselves, he risked another.

“No books.” He nodded at the empty shelves over the workbench. 

Wolff came in behind him, bracing a hand against the door in case it started to close with them both inside. “Moved upstairs when she got too old to keep coming down here?”

“Yeah, that's the obvious explanation, isn't it?” He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling his head back. “Damnit. I was really hoping this would pay . . . off . . .”

It took her a second to make out what he was staring at. The ceiling was stained black, save for several points where erratic gashes had been scored through the soot. And  beneath the soot –

“Would that be the transmutation circle for turning human bodies into poison gas?” Wolff asked, training her torch on the same spot at Elric was pointing his.

“Uh huh.”

Looking closer, she could see how the soot spread in loops and whorls from the circle – and how the gashes cut angrily through it. “That's your trap, then.”

“And it looks like someone already set it off,” Elric said with grim satisfaction, “Then broke the array to save themselves from it.”

“So assuming we believe Michael Helmont when he says he didn't know about this place . . .”

“Someone else got in here – and got out again. Jackpot.”

“This doesn't tell us who they were.”

“No, but it's better than the grand total of no clues I had walking in here. And hey,” he added, wheeling around to give her a wide, boyish grin, “if the trap's already sprung then we –”

_ Click. Fwip _ .  _ Ca-chunk. _

“Ah, crap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The chapter that would not end! It would be within my tentative upper limit if I left out the flashback to Anna in her prime, but that's an indulgence I didn't want to cut.  
> \- Jack Crowley hails from the second FMA video game, Curse of the Crimson Elixir and is shown here about to embark on his ill-fated trip to the lost city of Siam-Sid. One day I will probably write the doomed polyamorous one-shot between him, Arlen Glostner and Golem!Elma that no one asked for.  
> \- I like to imagine that most normal alchemists are freaked out by Gate-blessed alchemists.  
> \- I am definitely putting this fic on hiatus after the intermission next week. The heat is not remotely helping my writing capacity at the moment, and I want to build up more of a buffer than I have before I post again. Sorry about that. Probably won't be too long since I am most of the way through the next five chapter block, but I'm not going to make any solid promises until the weather breaks!


	19. Intermission: Slings And Arrows Before The Storm

_They say the court grew uneasy as the Emperor came to heed closely the words of the Sage. It was unheard of for an outsider to gain the ear of the Divine and the lords of the Great Clans knew not how to curtail his influence without inviting the Emperor's wrath. As the season lengthened and the Sage showed no sign of departing, they could only watch and fret._

_Then came a day on which the Emperor decreed that grand patterns should be constructed across the city to bring fortune upon the Empire, and those who most feared the Sage's presence saw no choice but to act._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The guards moved to encircle the alchemist, two on each side, one to block his way back into the library. He raised his eyebrows at the man who had stepped out in front of him. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” said Lord Chang, “You may quit Xing without delay.”

There was no one else in the hallway. Distant footsteps and murmured words drifted in through windows on to the royal gardens but from the surrounding passages, there came only silence.

“Have I displeased the Emperor?” the alchemist asked with respectful precision.

“You endanger the Empire. That is enough.”

“I do? How so?”

Chang's expression tightened. “You claim innocence? Or is it ignorance?”

“I am merely confused by the accusation. I should hope I would know if I were bringing danger upon my friends.”

A gesture from Chang and the guards levelled their spears. “You will leave. If not willingly then by force of arms.”

“Do you really want to do this?” The alchemist lowered his gaze. “Do you really think you can?”

“Try to turn the earth and stone against me and my men will run you through.”

“Why should I do that?” The barest movement brought the alchemist's hands together. Blue light flashed about him. The guards gasped as gossamer strands transfixed their spears, pinning the weapons like butterflies. “I can turn the air and light against you just as well.”

For a moment, Chang's controlled poise broke into startlement but his surprise quickly turned to a smile. “Truly, I think there is little Master Hong can possibly have taught you.” His hand twitched, something falling into it from his sleeve. “I know he did not teach you of this.”

Harsh white lighting leapt between the spear-tips, a ring to hold the alchemist and lines to pierce his chest. He doubled over, mouth twisting in pain.

“The alchemy of this land can heal.” Chang raised the disc he held, a wooden token embedded with metal barbs on the points of an array that was the solid twin to that which now impaled the alchemist. “But the distinction between cure and poison hangs upon an intent.”

The alchemist's lips parted as he struggled to breathe. Veins stood out on his neck.

“Your body turns against itself. There is nothing you can do to fight this.”

A thin gurgling noise escaped the alchemist's throat. Chang's smile became triumphant. Then he realised the alchemist was  _ laughing _ .

With an effort, the man from the west lifted his hand to his chest. “You are right,” he said raggedly, “Our bodies revolt at our attempts to transmute ourselves. No ordinary alchemist could fight this.” His fingers dug into the fabric of his robe. “But I am no ordinary alchemist.”

A red sun lit the hallway, drowning the white light. The spear-points melted. The shafts burned. The alchemist straightened, serene and unharmed. He took one step towards Chang.

The floor came alive. The walls grew hands and the hands grew talons. A dozen deaths, reaching out hungrily –

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

The transformation froze and reversed, returning the passage to stillness. Chang spun to face the voice that had saved his life and prostrated himself on the ground. “Majesty, I –”

“Forgive me,” the alchemist said, going done on one knee, “I was acting in self-defence.”

The Emperor glowered thunderously. Masked warriors flanked him on either side, swords ready. Behind them, a figure in blue clasped her hands, head bowed.

“The Lord Chang seems to have taken against me,” the alchemist continued, “I must apologise for overreacting but I do not desire to learn what it is like to be impaled.”

Eyes sweeping over the guards who now cowered near the library door, the Emperor turned the full force of his glare upon his minister. “Is this true?”

Chang raised himself a little, calculations of truth, safety and respect visible in his hesitation. “Divine majesty, this man is a threat – I beg you not to tolerate his presence any longer!”

“A threat?” Incredulity would have been beneath his station but a lesser might have mistaken the Emperor's reaction for such. “You claim that  _ We _ are threatened by the Master Philosopher?”

“You saw his powers! How he shapes the very fabric of Your Majesty's palace into a weapon!”

“In response to your aggression. In defence of his own life. Besides, would you send away such power before it could be shared with Us?”

Chang's head jerked up, stopping just short of disrespect. “Is this why Your Majesty inscribes his circles upon the city? Has he told You they will gift Xing the bounty of his alchemy?”

The alchemist said nothing and did not rise from his bow. The Emperor looked from him back to Chang. “I have seen the Master Philosopher heal wounds at a touch and return life to that which is dead. Would you have Us turn aside such boons when they are offered?”

“I would never deny such things if they were in my gift! But this man is not of Xing and he is not of Your court – how can his motivations be trusted? How can his science?”

There was a long silence.

“Perhaps,” said the Emperor with dignity and ice, “it is because he is  _ not _ of Our court that he can be trusted. At least We know a stranger will not be threatened by the notion that We may never have to cede Our throne to the child of another clan. And We might have greater faith in one who patiently speaks his mind than in a minister who decides to make Our decisions for Us.”

Protests came to Chang's lips and died at the Emperor's raised hand.

“You have assaulted Our guest and travailed upon Our hospitality. In the name of the unity that is Our great gift to Xing, the Changs shall not suffer for your actions. But We will not stand for this insult. Leave Our court and Our city and do not return until We call for you. ”

Wordlessly, Chang pressed his face to the floor.

“Please, Your Majesty.” The alchemist's robes whispered as he stirred. “I have brought discord and would not wish to see others pay for that. The Lord Chang was acting in what he believed to be the best interest of Xing. I beg you to show him leniency.”

Face set in grim lines, the Emperor raised his chin. “This  _ is _ leniency.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This fic will now go on hiatus for a few weeks while I build up a chapter buffer again. Sorry for the break in transmission - I'll be back to this as soon as I can!


	20. Breakfast With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And we're back. At least for the next five weeks! After that, I'm going back on hiatus so that I can plan out the back half of the fic in detail before I start writing it.

Al had no idea how long he spent lost in a half-waking haze. Sensations and impressions blurred one into the other with no real coherence: a sense of motion and speed; sharp electric smells; bumping, lolling movements, his limbs useless and heavy; cold air on his back, a bony shoulder digging into his stomach. He had only one clear memory amongst it all, without context or logic, of lying in darkness, his mind filled with feverish concern about his age.

He'd always believed the rapid growth spurts were his body ageing to match his memories. But what if they were just the normal effects of growing up and he was really a twenty-one year old mind in a seventeen year old body? Or, if he  _ had _ aged rapidly, would that keep going? Was he going to be the opposite of Dad, burning four years for every one he lived?

Confusion reclaimed him before he could work out the answer.

The first thing he was really, properly aware of was the mattress beneath him. It was firm and comfortable, and smelt clean, which was a relief. There had been so many times in Germany when he'd almost wished for an unfeeling metal body that couldn't smell.

It was cold though. Probably because he seemed to have thrown off the covers. Oh right – and he'd not gotten dressed after . . .

There was something around his neck.

He sat up far more quickly than his head was prepared for. The room spun, a dizzy whirl of pale yellow walls and grey tiles. His hands scrabbled at his throat, finding metal and leather and the clinking links of a chain. Then his stomach lurched.

He made a scrambling dash for the toilet in the corner.

Some minutes later, once he was done heaving up his guts, he flopped back on to the floor and groaned. He felt hollowed out, but his head was clearer and the room was no longer turning circles.

The  _ cell _ , he corrected, eyeing the barred gate opposite. He couldn't see much outside, just another unadorned wall. No clue as to where he was or how he gotten there. The thing around his neck was a metal collar, padlocked shut and lined so that if he did not move too much, it wasn't all that uncomfortable. The chain ran up to a grate in the ceiling.

It was the only thing he was wearing. Which, on the up side, meant no one had done something creepy like dressing him while he was unconscious. But on the downside . . . yeah.

Al hugged his knees to his chest, trying to think warm thoughts. That about finished taking stock of things. The only other fitting was a metal washbasin that, like the bed and the toilet, looked solid and immovable. There was nothing loose or easily converted into a weapon. All in all, pretty much what you'd expect from a prison cell.

Next question: who'd locked him up?

There'd been gunfire – and as he thought back to that, he remembered Amantius' questions about the Scarred Men. But there was nothing especially Ishbalan about the cell. A group of Bradleyists, maybe? They'd have no problems attacking an Ishbalan city or targetting the brother of the Fullmetal Alchemist. Except –

He looked down and frowned. Everybody knew the first thing you did with a captive alchemist was bind their hands. So why were his still free?

“Don't you know who I am?” Al murmured, managing a weak grin. There had to be a catch – the floor electrifying if he tried to transmute, something like that. And since no one was there to tell him what it was, there was only one obvious way to find out.

He levered himself to his feet to check how his head felt. Being upright was not great, but it wasn't catastrophic either. The few steps back to the bed reassured him that he was not going to be sick again or come down with a fainting spell. He looked at the mattress, chewing his lip. It might have made more sense to take the bars out first, if he was possibly only going to get one shot at this. But that would leave him fighting any guards in the all-together, which – no. Clothes first.

Bracing himself, he brought his hands together. The familiar tingling rush of energy flooded down his arms, the reaction beginning to circulate –

The collar grew hot and all at once, the energy he'd intended for the transmutation rushed away. He felt it torn out in a painful jolt as the chain lit up with alchemic symbols, a pulse of blue light disappearing up into the roof.

When he put his palms against the mattress, absolutely nothing happened.

So that was it. He stood there, massaging pins and needles out of his fingers and fighting another wave of nausea. Ed hadn't really described what it felt like to have Michael's watch steal his transmutations, but clearly this was the same deal. Al yanked on the chain, winding it around his hand so that he could take a look at the arrays on the links. There was only a slight resistance, though it was quickly drawn back upwards when he let go. He wouldn't have bet against it tightening if he tried anything against his captors –

There was someone standing on the other side of the bars.

In his defence, in any other situation, making a  _ meep _ noise and trying to cover his modesty would have been a perfectly sensible response. Even under the current circumstances, he wasn't sure it was inappropriate.

Cassie Panavia looked much as when he'd last seen her at the League's mansion: the same neatly bobbed hair, the same polite lack of expression. Her clothes were different – a fitted maroon jacket and black trousers, rather than a drab skirt and waistcoat – but that was about it.

Then her face broke into malicious amusement and it was like he was looking at a different person. “Comfortable?”

He didn't dignify that with an answer, just glared at her. Her lip twisted in a sneer.

“Feel free to keep doing your little party trick. It shouldn't matter if you transmute without a circle or with one. The energy will be siphoned away regardless.”

“Where am I?” No sense avoiding the obvious questions. “How did I get here?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

So that was how it was going to be. Fine. “What do the Bradleyists want with me, then?”

“Hah.” Her hand strayed to the broach on her lapel. “You think we're  _ Bradleyists _ ?”

“You were working with them. Right? Dr Euler and his friends?”

She gave him a knowing look. “No comment.”

“Wait!” Al called as she began to turn, “At least tell me what happened to Felix? Is he OK?”

“Who?”

“He . . . I . . . was with him when you took me. Did you hurt him?”

Cassie's eyes bored into him, some hard, ugly emotion crossing behind them. Then she tore her gaze away and strode out of view without saying another word.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There was no way for Al to keep track of time in the cell. He'd no idea how many minutes or hours passed between Cassie leaving and a figure in a mask pushing a bowl of stew under the gate. The chain yanked taut just before they approached the bars, keeping him by the bed. He tried to recall the details of the guard's costume afterwards but the black clothes had blurred the outline, so all that really registered was the mask: a fearsome, scowling pattern picked out in red and white.

They did not even give him a spoon to eat the food, just a hunk of bread.

“At least I didn't get kidnapped by dumb people,” he told the washbasin, “That'd have been embarrassing. And hey – I don't even have a strange woman sitting inside me this time.”

That sounded weird. Well, it had  _ been _ weird. He dipped his finger in the stew and drew a simple transmutation circle on the floor. Like Cassie had said, it made no difference. The chain sucked up the energy of the reaction before it could take hold.

He spent the remainder of the day trying to figure out how that worked. He assumed the lights going out indicated nightfall, anyway. There was no natural light, only electric lamps behind clear panels in the walls. Perhaps they were just messing with him.

Whoever 'they' were. The people who had found the other Edward and fed him red stones. Sent him with Cassie to steal Michael's watch and blow up Central. And now . . .

Al lay back on the bed and tried to sleep. He expected he was going to need to be well rested for whatever happened next.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They got him up early, or so it felt. The lights snapped on and the chain went taught, literally dragging him awake. While he was still blinking and trying not to choke, the barred gate slid aside to admit two people in masks carrying swords and two men in grey robes carrying buckets.

“You are to be washed,” said one of the masked guards, “so that you may be presented to the master.”

“I . . . am?”

The guard raised his sword. “Do not resist.”

Because the naked man with a chain around his neck was the person in the room to worry about.

Al stood up and stayed very still as the robed guys set about sponging him down with warm, soapy water. He was almost thankful for the guards pointing their swords at him: at least that answered the question of where the hell he was supposed to look. The whole thing was halfway between surreal and humiliating. He longed to lash out, to show them how his Teacher made sure that alchemy would never be his crutch.

That would have been stupid. His blood boiled to do it anyway.

Eventually, he was apparently clean enough and they towelled him down, leaving his skin red and smelling vaguely of rose petals. The attendants filed out and then one of them returned to shove a bundle of silk into Al's hands.

“Get dressed,” said the guard who had spoken before.

Once again, Al swallowed the impulse to resist and did as he was told. Clothes were good. Even ones as flimsy as the black trousers and golden shirt that he'd just been handed. The shirt didn't even do up. That was deliberate, right? Like not giving him shoes. All keeping him as vulnerable as possible.

As soon as he was dressed, the guards grabbed his arms and forced him to his knees so that he was facing the door. “Hey!” he protested, only to quickly shut up when the grip tightened.

A girl stepped into the cell. A young woman, really, though she couldn't have been any older than Al himself. She wore a purple version of the attendants' robes and had black hair, woven into the longest braids he'd ever seen. Her eyes were wide and alert, like someone stepping into a tiger's cage.

The guard on Al's right said something to her in a language he didn't understand. The girl came slowly towards them. She looked at Al once, searching his face for – something. Then she ducked down to examine the collar. Her fingers worked around it, checking the fit. After that, she disappeared behind him. He heard the bedsprings protest, followed by the squeak of hinges and a clinking noise. There was movement above the back of his head. The pressure of the guards' grip told him it would be a bad idea to try looking over his shoulder.

When she came back into his line of sight, the girl was carrying what looked like a very large lantern, except with a metal bottle at the centre instead of a glass lamp. And coming out of that was the other end of the chain, wound on a spool just beneath the handle.

The guards let Al go and one of them took the lantern thing from the girl. She spoke, soft and low, before slipping out of the cell with a backwards glance too brief for Al to read her expression.

“Get up,” the man with the lantern ordered, tugging the chain for emphasis, “and come with us.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


After several passageways and a pipe-lined staircase, Al concluded that they were underground. Even if he'd ignored the complete lack of windows, there was a subterranean feel to the air that had him shivering. The clothes did nothing to help, especially with cold stone under his bare feet.

He was grateful the next floor up was carpeted. Also unnerved by how entirely it swallowed the sound of the guards' footsteps. Heavy drapes covered the walls in folds of rich red cloth, obscuring doorways and generally confusing his sense of the place. He might have passed a dozen escape routes and never have known it.

Not that he'd have been able to do anything if he saw one, given the pace the guard holding his chain was setting. He did not let up until they turned a corner and two more of the grey-robed people drew aside a pair of curtains to usher them into –

A dining room. That had to be what it was, right? The long table, laden with food. An empty plate ready and waiting. Only . . . you didn't usually light one end of a dining room with a spot-lamp and leave the other in complete darkness.

The guards took up positions either side of the entrance and the curtains fell shut behind them. “Please,” said a voice from the darkness, “Sit. Eat. You must be starving.”

And Al was. Obviously. One bowl of stew in however long had not been nearly enough and the smell of the fresh bread and the fruit and the meats and everything else laid out before him was enough to make his belly grumble with anticipation.

If he hesitated, it was simply due to a natural distrust of voices coming to him out of the dark while someone had him on a literal leash.

“Is this the part where you tell me this is all a terrible misunderstanding and let me go?” he asked as he took the 'offered' seat.

“No, I'm afraid not.” The voice was smooth and he might have mistaken for friendly if not for – everything.

“Hm.” Was it safe to eat the food? They probably didn't need to poison him . . . He picked up a grape and bit into it. It tasted perfectly innocent. “You know, Edward already told us what you look like. There's not much point hiding like this.”

“Is that so?”

“You're 'the master', right?” The bread . . . and some of the sausage . . . Al began to heap the plate with way more than he was going to be able to eat. He wasn't sure if he was making a point or just keeping his hands busy.

“That is one of my titles, yes.”

“Right. So . . . like I said, no point hiding in the dark.”

“You think this arrangement is meant simply to hide my identity?”

Al paused halfway through filling a cup with water from a silver pitcher. He considered the pool of bright light in which he was sitting, the way it lit him up while obscuring everything else. “You think the collar isn't enough to make me feel helpless?”

“We both know that even without your alchemy, you are far from helpless. I'm sure given time, you would find a way out of your predicament. I'd expect nothing less from the son of Hohenheim of Light.”

As casually as he could, Al put the pitcher down and started dividing up the food he'd collected into manageable portions. “And what would you know about my dad?”

There was a smile in the voice when it spoke again. “Everything, Alphonse Elric. I know everything about him.”

“I . . . really doubt that.”

“I know that he was born over four hundred years ago. I know he lived for centuries by forging a Philosopher's Stone. I know of the cities he plundered to do so.”

By pure force of will, Al managed to take a bite, chew and swallow it. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

A sigh whispered down the table. “I think you're an intelligent man, Alphonse. I would recommend you start assuming the same about me.”

Bite. Chew. Swallow. Al stared into the darkness, trying to make out anything beyond a vague, shadowy shape. “All right. How do you know about all of that?”

“Better. Let's just say that I have been paying attention.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“Does something about your current position suggest that  _ I _ will be the one answering questions?”

“No, but you weren't really asking any so I was a bit confused.”

The 'master' laughed softly. “I like you. I didn't think I would, but I do. How strange. To find myself liking a monster.”

Al's brow furrowed. “A monster?”

“What else do you call the son of a monster?”

“Dad wasn't –” The words snagged on his tongue. But his dad  _ hadn't _ been a monster. He'd cared. He'd given his life to try to get Ed home. He'd treated Al as a person, even when he was nothing but a soul in an iron shell. Monsters didn't do that.

Only . . .

“What do you know of Xing?” the master asked, which was so abrupt a shift that Al's brain seemed to skid as he tried to keep up.

“The . . . the country across the Eastern Desert? Um. Not a lot. Only that it used to be the centre of a big empire. I've read a little bit about their alchemy traditions, though that was all translations and I'm not sure how good they were . . .” Al thought back to the young woman and the attendants, to similarities in their appearance that hadn't really meant much at the time. “Wait, are you saying that you're – your group or whatever it is – you're Xingease?”

“You're asking questions again. Well, never mind. Is that really all you know?”

“Yes. I suppose so. There wasn't much call for me and my brother to . . . none of the books we read about the other side of the desert ever seemed like they'd help us much. A lot of them were fairy-tales, really. Nothing . . . err, nothing useful . . .”

His eyes must have started to adjust to the uneven lighting because Al would swear he saw the shape at the other end of the table move. Just a little. As if bristling.

“Fairy-tales? Is that so?” The master's amusement turned into something soft and dangerous. “That's normal, I suppose. For Amestris. Even your historians don't seem to know much of the empire beyond that. Or they don't care to learn more.”

“Well . . . I guess . . . it fell a long time ago, right? Things get . . . forgotten.”

“Like a whole other city under Central? Or how to make a Philosopher's Stone?”

Al bit down on another grape, because it was that or biting his tongue.

“You make it sound too innocent. 'Things get forgotten.' As if it's just something that happened on its own.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –”

“Didn't mean to be born out of the deaths of thousands upon thousands of people? No, that wasn't something you meant to be, was it? Just something you  _ are _ .”

He pushed the plate away, trying to keep bile from rising up his throat. “What . . . what exactly do you want with me?”

“Nothing. There is nothing I want from you and nothing that I would take. You are here simply to bear witness.”

“To what? I can't even see you! All I've witnessed so far is the inside of a cell, some curtains and a breakfast buffet. Which doesn't seem worth the effort of bringing me here.”

“Oh, there are so many things that I'm going to show you, Alphonse. Justice. Retribution. The fall of Amestris. The restoration of everything your father took from my ancestors.”

“Everything he – what are you talking about?”

Only silence answered him. It felt like it was grinning.

“You know, I won't really appreciate your evil plan if I don't understand what it is.”

“All in good time. I'd hate to spoil the surprise.”

More power games. Putting Al in his place by rationing knowledge, food, freedom. Great.

Something moved in the dark before he could come up with a sufficiently biting rejoinder. Not the master, something – someone – off the to side of the table. Al caught the hint of one of those white masks, moving down as if to whisper in an ear.

“ _ Here _ ?” the master hissed, self-assurance breaking for that single, angry word. The possibly-a-mask bobbed up and down and Al strained to hear what was being said, to no success.

A single clap sounded. “I'm afraid we must end out meal early.” The smoothness was back, as if it had never been gone. “Something has come up that requires my attention.”

“Oh? Anything serious?” Such as the entire State Military turning up on the doorstep or Ed blasting his way in like a bomb going off.

“You'll be escorted back to your room now.”

“Wait!” The chain tightened; Al had to fight not to be yanked out of the chair. “The man I was –”

“We will talk later, Alphonse.”

And the guards dragged him away.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Neither of them said a word as they dumped Al back in his cell and returned the alchemy-draining machine to the grate in the ceiling. He let them shove him around without resisting, thankful they weren't taking the clothes away and wondering what they looked like behind their masks. Were they really from Xing? It would never have occurred to him if their master hadn't brought it up. There were trade-routes out east but he'd never heard of much contact with  _ any _ of the countries beyond the desert.

A couple of families in Risenbool traced themselves back to Xingease travellers. Far fewer than were descended from the near-eastern tribes, but they were there and showed no more inclination to bring down the country than any other farmer trying to make ends meet in the middle of winter.

Not that that was a guide to anything outside of one little community in the middle of nowhere. Besides, what did 'the fall of Amestris' even mean? Al imagined after everything he'd seen, there were some ways of bringing the country to an end he'd have been quite happy to help with. On the other hand,  _ also _ because of everything he'd seen, he knew there were ways it could be done that . . . well . . . Cassie had shown no compunction about doing things that would have left hundreds of people dead, so –

Al twisted the chain around his hand. If it was copied from Michael's watch, did that mean that everything last year had just been about getting hold of that and the whole blowing-up-Central thing had just been cover? Or was this the consolation prize? 'Shucks, we didn't get the amplifier but hey, we can now tie up an alchemist real good!'

He wasn't sure that added up either way he looked at it. None of it did. There was something big he was missing.

“ _I know he lived for centuries by forging a Philosopher's Stone. I know of the cities he plundered to do so.”_

“What did you do, dad?” Dragging his hands drown his face, Al sank on to the edge of the bed. He thought of Liore, of searing red light and the rushing roar of transmuted death. Of afterwards, of feeling as light as air, the cold, heavy steel that had been his existence transformed into something shining and miraculous.

Seven thousand people burnt up so that he could live. What a sick kind of equivalency. Oh, he knew Scar hadn't done it for him. But by making him the centre of the reaction, Scar  _ had _ saved him. The second time that cursed red stone had meant Alphonse Elric existed in the world.

Perhaps the master was right. Monster was a pretty good word for someone whose life had cost so many others.

He really hoped Felix was OK.  _ Please don't let someone else have died because of me. Please – _

White light flashed briefly outside the cell.

Al blinked. Had he imagined – ?

There was a sound like a body crumpling to the floor.  _ Exactly _ like that, in fact.

The girl with the braids appeared in front of the bars. She had some kind of small knife in her hand and a look of furious determination on her face.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up to her full height. On tip-toes, she might just have reached Ed's shoulder. “If I let you out,” she said, quiet and serious, “will you take me to your Prime Minister?”

Al blinked again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Wasn't kidding about being mean to Al.  
> \- Trying very hard to write the situation as appropriately perilous as opposed to kinky. This is not safe, sane or consensual, kids, and is not meant to be equated to anything that is.  
> \- Also trying to avoid othering and orientalism when writing about the Xingease characters, but I come from a country steeped in that kind of crap, so please lob a rock at me if things are going down that route. I made a conscious choice to position a lot of the Xingease characters as antagonists and it wasn't something I did lightly. Hopefully the intermissions and other backstory are making it clear the reasons for that antagonism are central to this fic.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Broken Boy' by Cage The Elephant.


	21. Looking For Clues In All The Wrong Faces

Ed's jaw cracked in an enormous yawn. “Sorry.”

From the next chair over, Wolff raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You're the one who insisted on coming here without going back to the hotel first.”

“Thought it'd be better to strike quickly.”

“Even after conclusively proving the trap wasn't attached to an alarm? And that the house wasn't being watched?”

“All we know is no one turned up. Doesn't mean –” Another yawn got past his attempts to hold it in. “Doesn't mean no one was watching.”

“Maybe they came by while we were in a hole in the ground. We'd never have known.”

“Oh, come on. They'd have seen the rope tied to the well and come down to see who it was. That's what bad guys always do when someone blunders into their traps.”

“I defer to your greater experience.” She covered a yawn of her own. “I still think staying down there all night was unnecessary.”

“Well, you know what alchemists are like. If we hadn't made a proper search, we couldn't have been sure we didn't miss notes encoded into the pattern of the bricks or something.”

His fingers strayed to the small cube of clockwork stashed in his coat pocket. They'd pulled it out of the wall, after he'd driven his auto-mail fist through the trap array. It was burnt up and drained but clearly a relation of the Helmont watch. A prototype, perhaps, pressed in service to protect the lab.

More importantly, they'd also found the hole for the one that had powered the array in the roof and there was no sign of where  _ that _ mechanism had gone.

“I've never seen the point of being so over-complicated about storing research,” Wolff said, “Must be a pain to reference.”

“I think some people just get too into it. They spend all their time thinking in spirals and then they can't walk straight afterwards.”

“Hn. Please stop me if I ever look like I'm getting that way.”

“Likewise.” Crossing his arms, Ed twisted to scowl at the office door. “How long does it take to get the boss up here? It's not  _ that _ early.”

“Debatable. Besides, barging in like this is hardly how Military officers are supposed to behave towards a civilian contractor. Especially one engaged in top-secret work.”

He got up to pace away some of the impatience before it got painful. There was plenty of room to do so. The office was easily as big as Mustang's and just as pretentious. He wandered up to one huge window and looked out over a sea of tarmac. “You know for a fact it's top-secret?”

“You don't put tin-tacks behind that many security gates.” He heard Wolff's chair squeak and a moment later, she was standing beside him. “I'm not even sure we should be here without clearing it with West Headquarters first. The boss is probably checking with them as we speak.”

“This is important. The regs can take a running jump.”

Her mouth twitched.  “Wish I'd thought of just ignoring the rules I didn't like all these years.”

He smirked. He wasn't as good at it as the General, but what the hell. “I mean, you gotta be precise about it. Only ignore the ones that don't make any sense or are just there to make everyone's life miserable. And it's better if you do it so it's technically within the rules but absolutely not what they meant when they wrote 'em. Which is what we're doing here – empowered to pursue any and all ends, remember?”

Wolff looked at him from the corner of her eye. “I doubt I'd be able to get away with it like you can.”

“Why not? Most of it's just fast talking, but intimidation works too.”  _ And you are a very intimidating person _ , but it seemed redundant to add that aloud.

“I'm sure that works fine for you. You're a certified genius, a national hero and . . .”

“And what?”

“You're very  _ Amestrian _ .”

“What's that got to do with it? You are too, aren't . . .” He stopped, mouth forming a silent 'o'. “People seriously give you shit over being from some territory annexed half a century ago?”

“They presume a lot from my appearance,” she said carefully, “And from my being the only female State Alchemist currently on the books. And from how my accent slips when I'm really pissed off.”

“That's . . .” Stupid. Wrong.  _ Predictable _ , if he'd ever stopped to think about if for two seconds. “Sorry. That was dumb of me. It's just – a while back I was stuck in a place where that kind of shit was everywhere. Even people I liked, they'd talk about how this kind of person or that wasn't any good. Coming back, I thought I was done with that crap – like it wasn't so bad here. Should have remembered . . .” Ishbal. Liore. Everywhere else that had been smashed up and swallowed by Amestrian wars.

“The West didn't suffer as much from Bradley's purification policies. And it's been decades since anything comparable to the Eastern Rebellion. But tensions with Creta . . .” Wolff shrugged and it looked like that was all she was going to say. Then she made an irritated noise at the back of her throat. “Let's just say, if you don't look or act a particular way, you constantly have to prove your loyalty before anything else.”

Ed wanted to punch something. Possibly himself and definitely everyone responsible for  _ that _ kind of miserable crap. “Wish I could tell you I understood what that's like. All I've had to deal with is people underestimating me because of my age or –” He spread his right hand and pressed it against the glass. “Either people think auto-mail means you can't do anything, or they think it means you're able to do everything just like someone who doesn't have it. You try and explain that the weather fucking hurts or that you need a break to oil your leg or . . .”

“That you don't swim so well?”

“Exactly! But I can just barrel through all that. Or hide it, if I want. Used to wear gloves so I didn't have to worry about . . . sorry. Thinking out loud.”

“That's all right. It's good to know you  _ are _ thinking about it.”

“just let me know if it'll ever help to have a national hero back you up, OK?”

“Hm.” For once, she let her smile linger. “I'm used to fighting my own fights.”

“Me too. Which is why I know it's good to have back-up. Hey, speaking of fights.” He turned from the window and folded his hands behind his head. “Did your training cover much martial arts?”

“Hand-to-hand's a specialty of mine. Why?”

“Want to spar sometime? I used to train every day with my brother but I've not found anyone at Headquarters who can keep up with me. Tried to talk Mustang into it a couple of times but he keeps making excuses.”

She bared her teeth. “Sparring with the Fullmetal Alchemist? Now  _ that's  _ an opportunity I'm not about to turn down.”

“Please don't start fighting in my office,” called a cheery voice from the doorway, “I've only just had the carpet put in.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Of course an area of heavy manufacturing was going to be miserable for someone with heightened sense.  _ Of course it was _ . Edward should have known that going in, the same way that he should have known better than to assume Noah would be the conspicuous one. Because yes, she was very striking and dressed in a manner that looked strange to someone used to London fashions. But she fit effortlessly in with the working people of West City, while he was jumpy and nervous, constantly wincing as every grumbling machine and clanging wagon drove spikes of pain into his skull. He ached to be done with it all, to tear across the rooftops and rip open every door until he found what they were looking for.

Which – of course – was exactly what he could not do. As Noah pointed out, with far more patience than he deserved, the people they were looking for  _ knew his face _ . Drawing any attention was liable to send them scattering before he got close. Or worse.

So instead he was stuck exploring the city at a pedestrian's pace, choking on bitumen and engine-oil and swallowing screams of suppressed impatience.

Edward adjusted the hat Noah had conjured for him and glanced across the road. T hrough the window of a baker's shop he could see she was still deep in conversation with the woman behind the counter. Couldn't she hurry it up? How long did it take to ask a few simple questions – ?

The railing under his hand gave an ominous creak and he forced himself to let go. That was  _ really _ not the way in which he needed to get a grip right now. He focused on the expanse of concrete ahead of him, trying to drive all other concerns out of his mind. The wall rose from a deep trench on the other side of the railings, topping out at easily fifty feet tall. Pipes snaked along the base of it, dozens of criss-crossed metal worms, intersecting and feeding into one another. He could hear water rushing inside some of them and, if he concentrated, the hiss of steam spreading through the rest, pumped out to drive factories and heat houses.

It unnerved him, that central heating for an entire city was so practical in this world. He had heard of such things back home: there had been something like it in America. But never at this scale.

Another reminder that alchemy was not some trivial side-show or veneer on top of the sciences he knew; it fundamentally changed them. Chemistry, engineering – town planning! Each transformed beyond his understanding.

All those years spent cramming his head full of knowledge, of learning and learning until he could drag some semblance of sense out of the universe – what good were they to him now? Perhaps Noah was right. Perhaps he should try and learn, try to understand the rules that now held sway over him. It was just . . . he wasn't sure he wanted to know more about a 'science' that could make red rocks out of people's lives. That burnt the dead of his world like a wax in a candle.

Noah's footsteps came up behind him. She moved to stand at the railing on his left, lingering hints of freshly baked bread wafting around her.

“She didn't know much more than the other people we've talked to. The wall went up about four years ago. Apparently they knocked down a lot of houses to build it.” She frowned and Edward looked with fresh eyes at the narrow band of ordinary-sized buildings behind them, sandwiched between the wall and the factories.

“Did she know anything useful about what's inside?”

“This bit goes around the power-station, but it was really built to protect a factory that used to make trucks for the Military. No one knows what they're making now. None of the workers are allowed to talk about it and a lot of them actually live on the site.”

“Meaning there'd be food deliveries and . . . well, would that make it easier to hide extra people living in there?”

“I don't know. But if you're sure the tracks going inside are the ones you came along before . . .”

He was. The only route that made sense ended in a pair of fortified gates set into the wall. He had listened to them open from the pavement nearby and he was sure that was another of the sounds he could recall from that night in the railway van. “So we're back to 'how do we get inside'?”

Noah tilted her head back. “Well, unless we can somehow get permission to go in . . . could you climb that?”

It was almost tragic that part of him still wanted to respond,  _ of course not. It's too high and too shear for any human to climb _ . “Probably. But not quietly. I'd have to smash hand-holds.”

“I could transmute a way in . . .”

“Better not to risk it.” He turned to face up the street, towards the level-crossing and the gates. “Let's go take another look at the entrance. I can always try sneaking in the same way I was brought out in the first place.”

“That wouldn't be any less risky than those other options.” Clasping her hands together, Noah fell into step beside him. “Perhaps we should try and contact Ed now. Or Brigadier General Mustang. They'd know how to do this properly.”

“If they believed me.”

“Why wouldn't they?”

There was no good reason he could think to give her, except that he probably would not, in their place. “I don't want to get them involved,” he said instead, “This is my mess. I should sort it out.”

“I don't think you can. Not on your own.”

“I know, I know –”

Edward's whole body tensed. For a long, disorientated second, he had no idea what was happening. All he knew was that some animal part of him was screaming:  _ threat-threat-threat _ !

Then his brain caught up with his senses and the panic turned into confusion.

The wind had changed. That . . . seemed to be all. There were no cars bearing down on them or assassins leaping from the shadow. The wind had just changed and blown a fresh gust of industrial miasma into his oversensitive face.

He was really getting sick of the smell of tar.

Except –

There was something –

“Edward?” Noah moved a little closer and her scent blotted everything else out.

“I'm fine.” He sped up, pacing ahead of her to prove it. “Come on.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The man in the doorway wore a suit as white as the teeth in his smile. A more poetic comparison than Wolff was usually inclined to draw, though appropriate when both were quite so blinding. The get-up must have been hell to keep clean. Or did that not matter if you spent your days in a plush office? As for the smile – she had never met anyone truly capable of grinning ear to ear, but this fellow was giving it a damn good try. Shame his dark glasses turned the expression unsettling rather than warm. Those and his shiny black hair were the only colour on him. His hands were in white gloves and his face was so pale it might as well have been dusted with icing sugar.

“Please,” he protested as she and Elric moved away from the window, “I spend so long admiring the view myself, I can hardly deny it to someone else.”

“It's OK,” Elric said and Wolff was sure he was about to stick his hands in his pockets before he thought better of it, “Seen one giant parade ground, seen 'em all, right?”

“Well I like to think that we have something unique here, but I certainly won't contest the opinion of the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

They made their way back to their chairs and the man in white went to sit on the other side of the desk. As he passed, Wolff saw his hair was done up in the kind of elaborate bow that she had only seen before in old portraits. He settled into his chair, the slight stoop that marked his walk turning into a hunched-forward posture.

“Now then,” he said with another smile, “it must be quite the emergency to get you out here this early. Or did I miss a memo about an inspection?”

Elric cleared his throat. “We want to ask you about a derelict house on your land.”

“Not what I was expecting, but any excuse to get a second meeting with a celebrity, eh?”

“Oh, right.” The puzzled dent that had been between Elric's eyebrows since the man came in cleared away. “You were at that party.”

“You remember me! Ah, but where are my manners?” He inclined his head to Wolff. “Marco Cavaier. It's a pleasure to meet you – is it Major as well?”

She said it was and gave him her name, slightly self-conscious under his opaque gaze. “Apologies for the intrusion. We felt it couldn't wait.”

“Not at all. So, which derelict house are we talking about? I know there are a few in the enclosure.”

“Lot of land walled off just to make tanks,” Elric commented, glancing gratefully at Wolff for backing him up on it being urgent.

“Well, we have to test our products somewhere. I'd go into details, but I'm afraid I'm not sure you are cleared for that information. You must correct me if I'm wrong, of course –”

“We're not. Never mind. The house we're interested in is in your outer perimeter. Over . . . that way.” He gestured in the approximate direction. “It used to belong to an alchemist called Anna Helmont. We've reason to believe there may have been dangerous materials stored there and we came to get permission to mount a search.”

“Gosh. What kind of thing are we talking about?”

“ _ You're  _ not cleared for that information. But it's serious enough that we need to get on top of it right away. Which is why we'll also need to know who here could have gotten access to the house in the last decade.”

“Decade? Ah . . .” Cavaier gave an apologetic grimace. “That might be a problem. I'm more than happy to help, of course, but my company only took over this facility about, oh, three and a half years ago, after it had been reconfigured for the current project. Obviously there was a lot of construction going on before that, building the inner wall and so on. I believe that some of your colleagues assisted with that. There must be state records?”

“Just give us what you can. Anything will help, even if it just tells us where we don't need to look.”

“Certainly! Well . . . um . . .” He looked at his desk as if perplexed to find nothing of use there. “I know our security detail makes regular patrols of the perimeter so I suppose the first thing is to find out if their routes go near this house. Helmont, did you say? Hmm. We  _ do _ have copies of all the land deeds. Precautions in case of legal action, you understand. I can ask for those to be dug out?”

“That could be useful, yes,” Wolff said, thinking about how land conveyancers inspected the properties they dealt in. A golden opportunity to unearth secrets.

“Good! I had best get that in hand then . . . but goodness me, have either of you eaten today? You must have been up dreadfully early to end up on our doorstep at this hour!”

“You don't need to –” Elric began.

“Nonsense! It will take a while to pull together the information you need. Why don't you stay here – I'll get everything in motion and have something sent up for you. Then once you've eaten and have had a chance to read over the paperwork, I can get some of my people to escort you out to inspect the, ah, scene of the crime, so to speak.” With remorseless good humour, Cavaier waved Elric back into his seat. “No, no, please. I insist. Anything for the Hero of the People.”

He bustled out, still stooped but with purpose in his step. As the door closed on his retreating coat-tails, Elric made a disgruntled noise and then sat back with a calculating look on his face.

Wolff was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking. “So how much time to cover up tracks do you think this little routine will buy him?”

“My bet is he'll use it to check for anything really embarrassing and try to spin it around into something that looks good for him after all.”

“Don't think he's been feeding Helmont's secrets to the Bradleyists then?”

“No.” He gave a firm shake of his head. “If he took over four years ago, it's the Assembly who put him here and I bet he's being paid a fortune for whatever his company's doing. Why would he risk that by betraying them to the old order?”

“Rich people do funny things. Still I take the point. And at least we get breakfast.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'll make sure I bring sandwiches next time.”

“Good to know you're planning more overnight stays in abandoned cellars.”

“Just not betting against it.” Leaning back a little more, he stared at the ceiling. “Wonder what they  _ are _ making. I was kind of hoping he'd slip up and assume we already knew. Tell us by accident.”

“Seems Mr Cavaier is more professional than that.” There seemed no reason to say out-loud how  _ un _ professional it was to hope that someone would spill State secrets just to sate personal curiosity. She was fairly certain Elric already knew that and simply didn't care.

“Yeah . . . funny. The way the surfaces were put down out there, it's almost like an airstrip.”

“An . . . air strip?”

“Ah, don't worry about it. Just something else from that place I was. It's not important.”

Which, as attempts to deflect her curiosity went, had pretty much the opposite effect.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Noah should have insisted they call Ed or the General. There was no good reason not to. She, of all people, knew the danger of not communicating properly, especially on matters that could quickly spiral into life-or-death situations. The only thing that delaying would do was increase the risk of . . . well, of everything that usually came of secret plans and mysterious cults.

Instead, she was trailing after Edward, following him if not into the lion's jaws, then to the lion's front door with a high probability that he was going to try ringing the bell and running away.

No, that was giving him too little credit. He had been controlled and restrained throughout their search. She did not think he was about to do something stupid now. Not intentionally.

Perhaps he thought that his quick 'I'm fine' had covered up his lapse back there. If so, it was only because he could not see his face at the time. He had been sniffing the air like a hunting animal and his eyes . . . the pupils had narrowed to slits, like a cat's.

Noah knew what that meant. It was in Ed and Al's memories, the change that had come over the boy who became Wrath. And though Edward snapped back to normal almost of soon as she spoke to him, there had been an instant when she had not been sure that he would.

Could she stop him, if it came down to that? She doubted her alchemy would even the odds much against someone who could lift entire tree-trunks as if they weighed nothing. Which just left trying to talk him down and she really had no idea how  _ that _ would go.

To her relief, when they reached the point where the railway passed through the imposing archway that appeared to be the only opening in the wall within the city, Edward simply planted himself on the pavement opposite and frowned at the gates. The tension from a few minutes earlier was, if not gone, then reduced down to something unlikely to attract the attention of an observant sentry.

There were two on duty, soldiers in full blue uniforms. They looked very bored, though Noah was not about to bet that would last if anything untoward happened. She closed the distance between her and Edward, worried that if they lingered, they would draw the guards' attention.

A bell rung and the crossing gates came down across the road, neatly solving that problem for her. She smoothed her skirt and watched the gates swing open so a train could come out. There were flashes of scrubland around the sides of locomotive and glimpses of open sky uninterrupted by buildings. She meant to say something about what that suggested lay on the other side of the wall, using the cover of the passing wagons to keep from being heard by anyone but the man next to her.

She did not get the chance to even draw breath.

Edward's head snapped around, teeth bared. His nostrils flared, twitching as the air swirled with the train's motion. He stared back down the street, eyes searching the row of houses. Then –

It was a really good thing that so much of Al's training had focused on quick reactions. If this had happened a few years ago, Noah was sure she could not have turned fast enough to see which alleyway Edward rocketed into. He would quite simply have left her in the dust.

Even with the training, it took her a precious second to start after him, several more to catch up and by then, he had his hands around the neck of a young woman who must have been standing in the entrance to the alley until he barrelled into her.

Her grey coat rippled as he lifted her off the ground. Noah called out, hoping that would shock Edward back to his senses before something horrible happened.

Much too late, she saw there was no fear on the woman's face. Just a steely, bitten-lip resolve. And as Noah watched, still too far away to do anything about it, she stopped struggling, seized Edward's wrist in one hand and drew a wicked-looking knife from her belt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Working out the internal politics of Amestris is an interesting exercise because there's not that much to go on in the source material save things like Bald's group of train-hijackers and the existence of the Armstrong family. There's 2003!Bradley's comments about 'purifying the population', but little context for what that means (especially since the Ishbal war is not officially couched in terms of extermination in that version, and we do not see any other instances of racism along ethnic lines). While things do obviously break down along some racialised lines, the Military high command has people of diverse appearance among it, suggesting that we're not dealing with modern white supremacism. I don't know if where I ended up – people from Central Amestris prioritised, with preferential treatment for those of aristocratic backgrounds regardless of origin and a hierarchy of 'dependability' based on how long ago someone's place of birth was conquered for everyone else – is anything close to what was intended, but I think it's a decent working model.  
> \- That said, whatever distance this authorial decision provides from real-world cases, I hope that I am writing Wolff's background with sufficient care. I'm drawing on experiences (present and past) that are not my own and while I want to do these things justice, I'm aware I'm likely to screw it up somewhere. Again, please let me know if so, so that I can do better.  
> \- On a brighter note, while I have no idea if this week's chapter title makes any sense whatsoever, it gave me a small buzz when I came up with it.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Faces' by The Albion Band.


	22. The Perils Of Being The Early Worm

“Uuuuuh.” Sheska's neck clicked loudly as she stretched. “That's the last time I travel parcel-class.”

“It wasn't so bad,” Winry argued, because compared to some of the ways they'd travelled in the past – like, say, face-first down an elevator shaft during an earthquake – it really wasn't. “And it was fun seeing how it all worked. The nets to pick up mail-bags and the sorting machines.”

Fun enough to keep her distracted for a few hours. But a taxi ride across the city was more than enough time for all her anxiety to flood back, hot and present in a way it hadn't been for  _ years _ .

Once upon a time, Winry had been pretty good at ignoring the gaping holes her two not-quite-but-basically brothers tore in her world whenever they gallivanted off into who-knew-what peril. Being able to set aside all the worry, pressing it to the back of her mind, was a defence mechanism. Nothing to be proud of, sure, but necessary if she wanted to function day to day. It carried her through the worst of playing spectator to Ed and Al's adventures and through the pain of losing them, one after the other.

For a while, after they came back, she thought she'd never have to rely on it again. That unwrapping all the feelings swirling between her and Ed, finding somewhere they could both call home, watching Al build a life outside of determined obsession – that all of that meant there'd be no more waiting around, fearing the worst.

That was hope, though. Maybe self-delusion. They were still Ed and Al after all. Which was kind of infuriating and kind of heartbreaking and mostly just  _ was _ . Winry could tell them – and herself – she was done waiting and wishing for them to come home, that she had her own life, her own dreams she was going to fulfil. But what did any of that matter, when she knew full well she’d drop everything the moment they needed her to?

Behind her, the taxi pulled away with a cheerful toot. Ahead was the door to the hotel. Just like they'd arranged, Bloch had the address ready when Sheska phoned from the station. Everything was going to plan.

Which did not feel like a comfort right now.

“Should we go in?” Sheska asked, fiddling with the strap on her case and looking to Winry for guidance, the way she always did even though she was older and the one of them with actual official authority. 

Winry squared her shoulders. “We won't get anything done standing out here, will we?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The warrior had misjudged and everything was ruined.

Patient hours spent tracking the traitor and his companion through the city, all thrown away in a few seconds of carelessness. She knew how sharp Edward March's senses were and still she allowed herself to grow complacent, to get that little bit too close. Now his hands were around her neck and the anticipation of her grandfather's disapproval was a hot brand of shame across her forehead.

Perhaps, for an instant, she actually considered the pain just punishment for the failure.

Then the woman came into the alley and shouted Edward's name and she snapped out of it. No. The master's plans still needed to be protected and if that could not be achieved through stealth, then she would achieve it through violence.

A swift slash with one of her kunai was enough to make the traitor let go. He recoiled, snarling, the shallow wounds hissing out of existence. She landed on her feet, using the breathing space to consider her options.

In a straight fight, she could not match the strength of one touched by the Serpent. What he lacked in skill, he easily made up for in brute endurance. She needed to hobble him, quickly, before he could –

He lunged towards her, nearly too fast to avoid. But not quite. As he crashed into the wall, she cut at his legs, aiming for his hamstrings, catching the flesh of his thigh instead. He gave a yip of pain and went off balance for the few seconds she needed to drop a smoke bomb at his feet.

A gust of peppery darkness swallowed him up, drawing out another cry. The warrior ran.

She remembered, from trying to train the traitor's rampaging anger into something like skill, how quickly he could recover from even the harshest of her grandfather's recipes. Perhaps the heightened senses made the effects worse for him in the moment, but it was only ever for a moment. So she guessed she had about ten seconds to reach the end of the alleyway.

She made it in eight. He shouted from behind her, a half-animal roar. Drain-pipes wormed their way up the back of the tenements. Easy to climb. It was the work of mere heartbeats to get up to the first storey, the second –

The drain-pipe creaked. She had meant to gain height and spring as Edward ran straight ahead, blinded by the smoke into believing she had gone that way. The fall would have driven her knife deep into his back, a wound far harder to heal than the scratches she had inflicted so far. But he must have seen her dart to the side, because he was looking straight up at her, one hand crumpling the black-iron pipe as if it were made of cardboard.

His scowl was strangely restrained after the howling in the alley, more irritated than infuriated. He began to pull the drain-pipe away from the wall. It swayed and bucked, fighting her grip as she climbed, desperate to escape the rising tide of snapped bolts. She was sure she was not going to make it. Certain she would be torn into free-fall and –

The join between two sections of the pipe gave way, just as she scrambled above it. There was a wrench as the bottom half went crashing to the street. She kept going, racing an ominous looseness in what was left behind until she could pull herself on to clinking roof-tiles.

Edward was already climbing after her, punching hand-holds where he could not find them. She hurled a volley of throwing stars at him, not expecting it to make much difference. It did not.

Backing quickly up the roof, she drew a second knife. There was no cover, just an empty slope all the way up to the ridge –

He exploded over the eaves, launching himself bodily into the air. She stabbed upwards, driving both blades into his chest. One glanced off; the other sunk between his ribs. His weight crashed down upon her, his face coming close enough that she could see his eyes were no longer human. As they rolled back against the tiles, she brought her legs up, levering the momentum into a kick. Edward went crashing over her head. She thought he might keep going and career away down the other side of the roof but, like her, he was able to arrest his slide and get back to his feet.

They faced each other for a second across the ridge. He wiped blood from his mouth, his other hand clutching the thick red stain seeping through his shirt. She held her kunai in a guard position, horribly aware of how unsure her footing was.

The blood smeared across the back of his hand flaked into ash and blew away. “Take me to your master,” he said, slow and clear despite everything.

_ Never _ , she thought, gritting her teeth.

The traitor raised his fists

  
  


* * *

  
  


The girl in purple told Al to keep quiet, which was perfectly sensible given they were trying to sneak about and immensely frustrating given how many questions he had.

After unlocking the collar, she led him past the slumped guards and along the corridor to a narrow opening he'd not noticed before. He realised why once they were inside and she put her hand to a mark on the ground. Golden light sealed the gap over as if it had never been there.

The cramped passageway smelled of dust and ozone. It was cold, with a rough floor that made Al wish he'd stopped to grab shoes off one of the guards. Dull red lamps illuminated bare concrete and the cables stretched along the walls. The girl gave him a nod that set her braids slapping against her shoulders before striding away, apparently trusting him to follow.

Well, what choice did he have?

It had already occurred to him that this could be a trick. But just like the possibility of poisoned food, he couldn't see any reason why his captors would bother. Everything he'd been through so far had been about putting him in the weakest, most humbling position possible. He couldn't see how freeing him to use alchemy again fit in with that.

Al held his hands in front of him. Part of him wanted to clap, just to make sure that he really could transmute again. Another, much bigger part of him kept going over what the master had said and all the memories it had dredged up. He recalled holding his hands like this before, back when they were gauntlets, thrilling with nervous excitement as he told Ed he remembered the Gate. He'd been so impatient, so determined not to waste the chance to fix everything. He hadn't stopped to think. About what it meant. About the cost of it all.

Not until Envy had taken him and all he'd had for company were his own thoughts, echoing around an empty helmet.

There should have been – something. Some sense of what he'd become in Liore. He should have been able to hear the screams of all the souls that had been poured into him. But there'd been nothing. Just silence and the bitter feeling of living when so many other lives had been lost.

He'd not known the half of it.

Did the girl with the braids think of him as a monster too? She'd been nervous about releasing him, that much was obvious. But whether that was because of who he was or because she was acting against the master . . .

He supposed he'd find out. Hopefully.

They'd been walking for about five minutes when the girl stopped. Putting a finger to her lips, she pointed further down the passage, to where it ended in a metal door. “This leads to a catwalk. It will not be in use but there may be people on the floor below. You must be quiet as we go across it.”

“Right,” Al whispered back, earning a scowl that pinched up her entire face. He tried nodding silently instead, which went down better. She eased the door open.

The room wasn't as tall as he expected from her use of the word 'catwalk', just a couple of storeys high. But it was long and wide, in a way that reminded him of the launch chamber under the Thule Society's headquarters. Here too were cranes and gantries, and tarpaulin-covered shapes mingling with machines of strange, complicated design.

There was no time to try working out what any of it was for. The girl kept low to the walkway, moving quickly and quietly forwards. He mimicked her, suddenly grateful for bare feet that made little noise on the icy metal. Luckily – or perhaps not by luck at all given the girl must have known already – the lights were underneath the catwalk, so they wouldn't cast shadows. As long as no one looked up, they should be able to get across safely, no problem.

Al squinted at the far end, another door, maybe . . . thirty metres away. He glanced down, at people in white coats fiddling with the machines and comparing notes on clipboards. He put a hand to his throat, imagining what might happen if they were caught.

Yeah. No problem at all.

  
  


* * *

Noah tried to follow Edward through the burst of smoke, only to discover that even brief contact left her skin stinging and her eyes streaming. Panic kept her from remembering she could just transmute the stuff off for a good half-minute, by which point both Edward and the woman were long gone. The sound of something crashing to the ground echoed through the alley, quickly replaced by a barking dog and startled voices.

Holding the structure of the chemicals she'd just removed in her mind, she reached into the slowly thinning cloud before her. It broke down to its constituent elements, leaving the path clear to –

There was another crash, above her this time. Masonry rather than metal. She hesitated, unsure which direction she should be running. More and angrier shouting from the far end of the alley decided it for her. Turning on her heel, she went back to the street.

The crossing barriers were up again, the train long gone and the gates in the wall closed behind it. Which unfortunately meant the sentries had nothing to distract them from the commotion. Noah didn't think they saw her slipping back out of the alley, but only because they were too busy staring and pointing upward, three or four floors over her head.

She hurried across the road to get a better look. Edward – she had to assume it was Edward, unless the woman had been carrying proper bombs as well as smoke grenades – had broken the back of one of the roofs, collapsing it into a truly impressive hole. Noah felt a stab of sympathy of whoever was going to have to do the repairs.

Then a bed came flying through the first-floor window.

No. Not flying. That implied a clean process with minimal damage to the surroundings. The bed _ smashed _ through the windows, pulverising both them and itself before hurtling to the pavement in a explosion of splintered wood. An arc of shattered glass tinkled down around it, catching the light as the woman in the grey coat bounded out of the newly created opening.

She had a knife in each hand now, holding them at the ready even as she rolled with her landing.

The soldiers raised their guns. One of them shouted for her to drop her weapons. Noah shrank back until she was up against the railings and got ready to dive for the ground. Perhaps she could transmute a cage around the woman before the bullets started flying – ?

Edward appeared at the broken window.

He crouched on to the very edge of the sill, hat gone, jacket and shirt sliced to ribbons, homunculus leather clearly visible underneath. His posture was . . . _wrong_. Contorted not just with the effort of ducking through the hole but with something else that Noah didn't have words to describe. A pent-up tension that seemed about to burst clean through his skin.

The soldiers tried to switch their aim without taking their sights off their first target. The woman raised her knives, apparently deciding her only option was to face Edward head-on. Noah brought her hands together, not sure if she was about to imprison the knife-woman or shield her from harm.

Bloody lightning flashed around Edward as he leapt from his perch. There was a burst of gunfire. A shout. A scream.

Then he hit the ground, the world turned red.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The lights flickered.

Al froze. He was halfway across the catwalk, the girl a few metres further along. Going at the same slow, careful pace, they could be over inside a minute, even if they were plunged into darkness. But if the lights went out, wouldn't someone come up on to the gantry to check what was wrong . . . ?

He glanced down. To his relief, the flickering had stopped. Then he looked past the lights and realised he was making eye-contact with one of the people on the floor below.

The man shouted and pointed, raising the alarm with the certainty of someone who knew there was no good reason for people to be up there. Al looked helplessly at the girl, who hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Run!”

They pelted for the end of the catwalk, more shouts coming their way as they threw out any pretence of sneaking. The girl wrenched the door open, revealing another narrow tunnel. As they raced inside, Al saw an opening on his left, steps leading up from below.

He thudded into the girl's back as she stopped dead in front of him. There were silhouettes in the distance, rushing towards them.

“The stairs,” she said.

There was no time to argue. She shoulder-barged him across to the steps, taking the lead again almost at once.

He'd have expected the people rushing  _ up _ the stairs to hear them coming, but going by how surprised the first guy looked right before the girl's foot connected with his nose, they hadn't.

Braids flying, she bounded over the two behind him like they were stepping stones, leaving all three stunned enough that Al could bowl them over with little effort. His heel landed hard on the last man's gut, eliciting a wet squeak. There was no time to apologise, even if he'd wanted to.

No one tried to stop them as they ran out on to the main floor. The other people – workers? Engineers? – must have fled, perhaps fearing being stepped on too, or else going to get help. They had a clear run to the doors and there were two to chose from, at opposite ends of the far wall. The girl aimed for the one on the right.

Al looked back. He could hear the people on the steps scrambling to untangle themselves and give chase but they weren't visible yet. The catwalk was little more than a dark shape behind the lights at that angle. He could see movement up there though, a shadow, the glint of –

He threw himself at the girl, carrying her out of the way of –

Was that a  _ throwing star _ ?

The girl squirmed out of his grip, her arm shooting up. Metal darts flew from her billowing sleeves, almost too fast for the eye to see. “Come on!” she insisted, not waiting to see if she'd hit their attacker.

It was too late.

Four masked guards erupted from the doorway, swords flashing, a wall of leather and steel to block their escape. Two more appeared from the stairs behind them, the lab-coated men right on their heels.

Fans of throwing blades appeared in the girl's hands. Al planted his feet, stomach flipping over. Even if he had time to create a weapon, they were already boxed in –

Or maybe being boxed in was the solution.

At Al's clap, the guards rushed forwards, just not quite fast enough. The floor rose in a glorious burst of alchemy, new walls forming to hold them back.

“You really  _ don't _ need a circle,” the girl whispered, sounding more surprised and impressed than he would have expected.

“Yeah, I guess the collar didn't do any lasting damage.” He switched his attention to the pre-existing wall, or at least the part of it now framed by his transmutations. A tunnel, leading upwards. That was the best next step. If he just shunted everything in the way aside, no one would get hurt – although after everything, he wasn't really in the mood to care if they did. “Let's get out of here.”

“Wait!” the girl shouted as the reaction lanced into the wall, ripping a hole in it –

There was a roar like thunder and the world turned white.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“So what do we do now?” Sheska asked.

_ 'Scream very loudly and bang our heads against the wall?' _ Winry's brain suggested unhelpfully. She turned back to hotelier. “Would it be OK if we wait here for our friend?”

“Oh, of course. Mr Heidrich's luggage is still all here so I'm sure he's coming back. Though it's a bit strange, him and his colleague not using their rooms last night.”

“It's not that strange. For him.”

“I . . . see. Would you like us to set you a place for breakfast? We offer quite reasonable prices for non-guests.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“I'm so glad you agreed to that,” Sheska said as they went to wait by the door to the hotel's dining room, “But are you sure? We could . . . uh . . .”

“Exactly. There's nothing else we  _ can _ do, not right now. We don't know where Ed's gone or why he didn't stay here last night. If we try chasing him down – well, we wouldn't know where to start and we might end up missing him.” Sighing, Winry leant against the wall and closed her eyes. “Guess we're not going to gain much time over a telegram after all.”

“We didn't know Ed was going to charge off and . . . well, whatever he's doing.”

“You'd think we'd have guessed, given what he's like.” She kicked her heel into the carpet. “Sorry for dragging you all this way if –”

Somewhere, outside, something went 'bang' very loudly.

A series of horrible possibilities flashed through Winry's mind, with no real relation to what was actually possible.

“What on earth was that?” Sheska asked, stepping towards the door to the street just in time to nearly get hit on the nose when it flew open.

The small child responsible managed to skid to a halt short of a full-blown collision and babbled an apology before rushing on. “Mama! Mama!”

The hotelier hurried out from behind the main desk. “Ellie! Are you all right?”

Ellie wrapped her arms around her mom's legs. “There was a big noise an' a lot of smoke up near th' pow station!”

Winry looked at Sheska. Sheska looked at Winry.

From the hotel steps, an uneven white plume was visible over the rooftops. It couldn't have been all that far away but the curve of the street kept the cause frustratingly out of sight.

“It might not be anything to do with Ed.” Sheska stopped in the doorway while Winry charged down to the pavement. “I mean . . . he was being so careful about not drawing attention to himself.”

“And how long would that last if he ran into the people he's chasing after?”

On cue, another bang sounded somewhere in the distance. Swallowing, Sheska came down a couple of steps and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Y-yeah . . . good point.”

“You stay here in case he comes back here. I'll just run over and check out the nearest one –  _ carefully _ , I promise!”

“Oh . . . OK. I'm still not sure running  _ towards _ the explosion is a good idea.”

“No,” Winry admitted with a sigh, “It isn't. But it's what my boyfriend would do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I hope against hope I have achieved some sort of consistency with Edward's powers. There's a degree to which it's been so long since I started this series that I wonder if I've kept my concept of the character stable. Anyway, it's going to be relevant later in the fic, so we'll see.
> 
> \- My chosen age order for these crazy kids, in case anyone is curious: Edward (27 - sorta), Sheska (25), Noah (~24), Winry (~23), Ed (22), Al (21). In the first anime, it seems fairly obvious to me that Winry has about a year on Ed, and Sheska must be a couple of years older since she's working at the Central library when Ed first visits at 12 (while I'm sure Amestris has lax child-labour laws, I assume someone in that position would have to be 15+ if only on a trust basis). Noah strikes me as being a year or two older than Ed in CoS, so sits somewhere between Sheska and Winry. Edward's placement in all this is royally messed up by the time jump between Ed's first and second visits to 'our' world (1916 – 1921). So while he's mentally Ed's age or younger, he's physically five years older.
> 
> \- Oh, what the heck, here's the rest for your reference – Wolff (28/29ish), Michael (24), Doddie (23), Felix (22), Russell (21), Leo (20), Fletcher (17), Rick (17). Mustang by this point is getting on towards 37 and bitter about it, Colonel Fiat is 34, Lady Handley-Paige is in her late thirties, Parker is in his mid-fifties. Cassandra is 31, but I won't discuss the rest of the antagonists because . . . reasons. The Emperor of Xing in the flashbacks is pretty young for someone in his position, probably late twenties/early thirties.
> 
> \- This chapter's song is 'I Am Electric' by Heaven's Basement.


	23. Of Flight and Fireworks Factories

“So this is what I get for relying on the 'efficiency' of the Amestrian Military! Edward Elric should be halfway to Ishbal by now! Instead he's cluttering up my office, all because some grunt couldn't pass along a simple message. Bad enough that we've got his friends crawling out of the –”

Macro  Cavaier stopped pacing, cut off by a a resounding thunderclap. In two strides he was at the window, watching thick smoke coil from the buildings across the compound. A phone on the table behind him began to ring urgently.

Stepping from a respectful position by the door, the lone guard moved to answer it, listening for just a moment before offering the receiver to Cavaier.

“Cassandra?” the younger man guessed, “What – ?”

“ _I warned you bringing Elric here was a mistake.”_ Shouts and clanging noises nearly drowned out the reprimand.  _ “He's gotten loose and blown up a fuel tank! I don't know how long we can contain the fire, so I'm heading down to pulverise the little freak before he does any more damage.” _

Cavaier drew a sharp breath, a cautionary word on the tip of his tongue.

The door flew open. A knife appeared in the guard's hand, bringing the functionary responsible to an eye-bulging halt, hands blurring in apologetic gestures. “Sir,” he croaked, looking to Cavaier, “I'm sorry – the State Alchemists – they forced their way past – they're insisting on going to help!”

Cavaier's grip cracked the phone's lacquered finish.  “Cassandra,” he said, very quietly, “Begin Phase One. Right away, please.”

“ _Are you_ joking _ ? We're not ready! We're not –” _

“The Fullmetal Alchemist is heading straight for you and if his brother is already setting fire to our staging ground, we don't have time to argue. If we act now, we might be able to salvage something from this. If we do not, everything we have worked for will be for nothing.”

“ _Fullmetal's here? That . . . fine. Yes, master. I'll give the order to load and fuel as many Shrikes as we can. But I still need to go and squash your runaway pet.”_

“Of course. I'll see if we can't slow down his brother. Thank you, Cassandra.” Cavaier rounded on the functionary. “Have factory security intercept Major Elric and his companion. I doubt it will stop them interfering but it can't hurt to try.”

“Yes sir!”

“Would it not be best for us to kill him right away?” the guard asked as the door swung shut again, “If interference must be prevented –”

Cavaier waved the suggestion away. “The dead body of a national hero won't improve the situation. Ah, Cassandra is right. Bringing Alphonse here was the wrong decision. We could handle Fullmetal showing up, even our stray wandering home, but open damage to the factory . . . right now all we can do is contain the consequences.” He chuckled suddenly. “And I was having such a good time playing the 'shadowy villain'.”

“What would you have me do, master?”

“Evacuate everyone and see that anything incriminating is destroyed in the fire. We can regroup later so long as there's nothing to give away the full scope of the plan.”

The guard nodded curtly. “Will you evacuate as well? To maintain appearances?”

“Hah! Surely good old Marco would stand firm in the path of disaster, no? No . . . a bit too timid to be facing down infernos, isn't he?” Sighing expansively, Cavaier pulled his neck-tie loose. “Yes I will leave, but first I have to make amends. It was my indulgence that brought this disaster upon us and if we cannot divert or contain the Elrics . . .” He wound the tie around his fingers and stretched it taut. “I'll find us another means of keeping them out of our way.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was distracting how much the factory buildings looked like Zeppelin hangers.

That really shouldn't have mattered, given at least one of them was currently on fire, but Ed couldn't get it out of his head. The conversation with Wolff had him thinking about the other world, about the ways it resembled this one and the ways it didn't and what that _meant_. Now he'd be seeing the ghosts of Germany and France everywhere he looked for days –

Right. The fire. He really should pay attention to that.

People were streaming on to the tarmac, driven by an orchestra of alarm bells, although it was hard to tell which of the buildings had actually gone up. The oily plume seemed to be coming from between the first two in the row, but there were no visible flames and nothing looked ready to collapse. Given how quickly fires could go from smouldering to raging, Ed didn't find that particularly reassuring.

“We're not equipped for firefighting.” Wolff had been right on his heels all the way from Cavaier's office and she stopped when he did. “Not to mention, we still aren't cleared to go in there.”

“If we can help and we don't, what does that say about us?”

“That we followed the rules?” But she didn't try to hold him back.

Men in white coats hurried out of a side door, pushing a trolley loaded with . . . pipes? Engine parts? Heavy, whatever it was. They had to put a lot of effort into turning and wheeling it away. And they left the door wide open behind them.

“I'll go in that way,” Ed announced, “You head around the front and see if they need help there.”

“Please tell me this isn't just an excuse for you to sneak in and find out what they're making.”

He shot Wolff an offended look that was about ninety percent sincere. “I thought you and me were starting to click.”

“That's why I asked,” she called back, already doing what  _ he'd _ asked. Well. Ordered. Which was the point. She'd be able to pin all the blame squarely on him for all this. 'This' being absolutely about saving lives and not slaking the seed of curiosity Cavaier's evasions had planted. The prospect of that only occupied a tiny fraction of his brain.

The same tiny fraction, in fact, that he dedicated to noticing the shouts from the uniformed soldiers racing towards him across the tarmac.

Ed ducked through the door.

Just inside, it wasn't that bad. The bells were obnoxiously loud and the burning smell pretty nasty – and familiar, in a way he couldn't quite place – but at first the smoke was little more than a haze. Not that it would have made much difference to his view on the situation either way. The only thing he could see at first was the back of some shelves.

There was no one there. He called out, then reached into his coat for the face-mask he'd packed in case Anna Helmont's traps got to the poison-gas stage. It'd do just as well against smoke.

On the basis that anyone in the other direction would have a clear path to the main doors, he went right, breaking into a run. No sense pretending he wanted the guards to catch up. They might do something stupid like follow him into a burning building.

The shelves ran out and he got a glimpse of the main floor. Again, no one there. Not a lot of anything at all, in fact. He could hear something though, rumbling away under the alarms. Machinery of some kind . . . below him – ?

He caught himself with one foot hovering over empty air. A staircase yawned before him, presenting an obvious choice. Did he keep searching the ground floor or descend, chasing whatever was making that noise?

Like the answer to that question wasn't fucking obvious.

Ed grabbed the hand rail and started downwards.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Al groaned and rolled over, trying to piece together how he'd ended up on the ground. He could recall the transmutation, the calculations in his head, light, a rush of heat and –

Oh.

He'd been incredibly lucky. His alchemy had continued working even as whatever he'd hit went up, shielding them from the worst of it. The wall now resembled a combination of geological formation and holey cheese. He'd never seen a reaction disrupted quite like that before.

Then again, he'd never tried to tunnel through high-explosive before.

“Idiot,” he told himself. Through the gaps, he could see a fire raging. The room was getting hotter with every passing second and sickly black fumes were pouring in. He'd have to seal the openings quickly before he was overwhelmed –

Golden light flashed around him. The girl in purple had her hands pressed to a circle scratched on the floor. Stone panels slid across to block the holes, one after the other. “I don't think that will hold for long,” she said when the transmutation was complete, “Especially if the other tanks ignite.”

“Right. I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't . . . I should have thought before –”

“And I should have warned you that fuel was being kept nearby. I . . . did not expect how quickly you could perform alchemy.” She brushed down her robe, which mostly just smeared the dust into grey streaks. “We will need another way out.”

Al glanced at his earlier work. “I'm surprised someone hasn't tried to break in.”

“Stopping the fire is more important right now.” Her confidence wavered. “I . . . I still don't know how best to get out.”

“If you can tell me where is safe, I can try making a tunnel again.”

This wasn't met with any great enthusiasm, which given the mess he'd gotten them into was completely fair. She turned slowly on the spot, scrutinising different directions before looking up. “The main floor is above us. If we can get off this level, we might –”

With a grinding shriek, an over-sized drill-bit pierced the transmuted barrier on Al's left. It pulled back only for two more to punch through lower down, followed by another two below those. Five points, evenly spaced – a neat, man-sized pentagon. And something clinking into each –

The girl flew at Al, shoving him aside as lightning flashed between the holes. He twisted, trying to shield her from the detonation that followed.

Through the dust he saw a metal hand grip the edge of the new opening. His heart leapt until a second hand appeared above the first. A third and a fourth on the other side. Too far apart to be human.

Unnaturally long arms flexed and Cassie  Panavia  landed in front of Al. She was strapped into large, armoured backpack from which the extra limbs sprouted. Her real hands held small metal discs lit by softly-glowing transmutation circles. Short, deft motions brought the arms arcing around to reach for Al and the girl

It might have looked silly, if he wasn't so aware of how much damage auto-mail could inflict.

He did not wait for her to strike. She'd cornered them at the narrow end of their refuge so the first thing to do was get some room. He feinted further into the corner then threw himself the other way. Faster than he'd have thought possible, the top right auto-mail hand rocketed forward on a scissor-spring. A drill-bit slid out of the palm and just barely missed his shin. It bit into the ground, goring out a fountain of gravel.

That mechanism . . .

He'd seen it before. Last time, it was been aimed at his chest and would have put a hole in his heart, if he'd had one back then.

“Huskisson –?!”

Cassie stopped, something like satisfaction on her face. “Recognise the design? Yes, I used some of my cousin's work into this.” The drill-hand drew back, the arms shifting around her. “Along with techniques we used on Colonel Archer, a bit of Xingease alchemy and . . . a few other things.”

“You mean  _ you're _ one of the people who turned Archer into a monster?” A monster who'd nearly killed Teacher. Who'd cost the General his eye.

She laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. “I thought you knew him from before his little accident. Do you think there's anything I could have done to make him  more of a monster? We just made him more effective at it.”

A good point. Not that he was planning on admitting it out loud. He needed to keep her talking though. Buy them time. “And you're Huskisson's cousin? Wait – his plan to make human/machine hybrids . . . did you get that idea from him?”

Her amusement vanished. “ _ My _ work gave  _ him _ that idiotic notion. Not the other way around.”

Al could feel the girl moving behind his back, the sleeves of her robe brushing gently against his thin shirt. “But he hated alchemists –”

“He still wanted to learn alchemy. To prove there was nothing it could do that he couldn't. The arrogant twerp actually thought he could better my life's work with a couple months' training.”

“So you're doing all this for revenge because me and Ed were there when your cousin got himself killed? He murdered dozens of people in his mine, if that makes any difference.”

“I always heard you were intelligent. A prodigy, even. Yet here you are – trying to distract me!”

The blow did not actually break Al's jaw, for all that it rang his head like a bell. Maybe the angle had been wrong, or the motors in Cassie's contraption weren't as powerful as those in regular auto-mail. Small comfort as he crashed to the floor, trying not to black out from the pain.

“As for you –” Cassie whipped two of the arms around to protect her face as knives flew from the girl's sleeves. Half of them pinged off the auto-mail, the rest went completely wide.

Vision swimming, Al jumped up, trying to get Cassie's attention long enough for the girl escape her reach. He succeeded, earning a massive bruise across his chest to go with the one on his face. The skin ripped off his feet as he tried to brace against the impact, only for another blow to knock him on his back.

The girl had reached the array she'd drawn earlier. She was . . . sticking daggers into it? He followed her gaze, past Cassie, to where those knives that had 'gone wide' were stuck into the wall. They'd picked out another perfect pentagon –

The array lit up and its ghost appeared between the knives.

Spikes shot out to pin Cassie awkwardly against the opposite wall. “Get us up!” the girl told Al urgently, hauling on his wrist.

A transmuted column lifted them to the roof and another clap made them a way through. Below, Cassie tore free, immediately beginning to smash chunks out of the make-shift elevator. They scrambled into the room above and Al sealed the floor beneath them.

It didn't seem likely that would slow her down much.

“This way!” The girl took hold of his wrist again, tugging him onward. To where, he couldn't tell. The heat was terrible and the smoke was everywhere. His eyes streamed and his already pounding skull contracted like a vise.

If he'd been able to concentrate, he could have cleared them a path, transmuted the chemicals in the air into some other, safer form. But he couldn't. He was already struggling to think, to breathe.

All he could do was focus on getting one foot in front of the other and trust once again that his rescuer knew where she was going.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The room at the bottom of the stairs was vast and seemed to drop away to the centre of the earth. Actual confirmation on that would have required clearing out the smoke and fixing the overhead lamps so they didn't stutter and blink in imitation of the fire presumably raging somewhere below.

What Ed  _ could _ see, just over the side of the gantry on which he'd landed, was a big platform lift with a rocket engine sitting on it.

Was it surprising how unsurprised he was? It didn't take a genius to deduce the Military would want the secrets of Eckhardt's invasion force and since he'd been dumb enough to leave them bits to pick up in the aftermath, well . . . He wasn't exactly going to faint with shock on finding something clearly made by someone recreating Alfons' designs based on a few exploded scraps.

Not a bad attempt, at first glance, though you'd have had to pay Ed good money to turn it on.

So. This was an aircraft factory and someone had made a spark near some rocket fuel. Great. Just great. Maybe he should do the world a favour and let everything inside get turned into clinker and charcoal. Stave off the inevitable point where Amestris tried to lead the world in airborne warfare.

Behind his mask, he growled in frustration and hurried towards the distant thump and clank of machinery. The walkway seemed to go on forever. W as there a good reason for building a factory this cavernous and subterranean? Or was it just the usual combination of paranoia and melodrama that characterised so much of the Military's contributions to architecture. Build a giant wall to stop snooping and then bury the important stuff in a hole anyway just in case the Drachmans started training birds as spies. Yeah, that sounded about right.

In the flickering, hazy light, it was hard to get a sense of the place beyond 'big'. Under the gantry, the smoke billowed about like a nightmare. Given how it moved, he guessed some of the noise was fans working to get rid of it. Which made sense. You'd not create a place like this without some way of extracting fumes, right?

A flash from below caught Ed's eye. There was a second one as he stopped to get a better look and through a break in the clouds, he glimpsed figures running and a . . . giant spider?

Another lift ground into motion, right behind him. He spun around just in time to see an aircraft rise majestically out of the smog. Smaller and sleeker than he'd expected. Four rocket exhausts in a fan at the back. He stared into their nozzles as they went past, a grim feeling twisting his stomach. Above, huge doors rumbled aside, spilling fresh air into the chamber.

What the hell were they  _ doing _ , staying down here to save some planes while they choked to death?! He was going to drag the people working the lifts out by their ears if that's what it took and then –

Well, he wasn't making any promises about anything else.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Somehow, they made it to another tunnel. Al could hear Cassie right behind them all the way, the rapid clatter of her extra arms rushing ever closer, panic mixing with disbelief at how fast she could move like that.

He'd have to work out the mechanics later, when they weren't trying to kill him.

“Is this some kind of secret passage?” he wheezed. The steel door the girl slammed behind them had looked like just another section of concrete wall from the outside.

“Escape route,” she said, breathlessness and curt, “Did not think we could get here before.”

_ Then some moron caused a massive distraction _ , she did not add, settling for pulling said moron along the tunnel.

The door must have locked automatically because now he could hear metal fists beating against it. He decided not to look back. The important thing was to keep going, never mind the pain in his feet or his still-burning lungs. If Cassie caught them in a confined space like this –

Thinking about that was not helpful.

Releasing his arm, the girl jumped to grab a rung hanging from the ceiling. Under her weight, the ladder extended smoothly and in another second she was at the top, working the catches on a hatch.

Her braids fell around her face as she glanced down. “Can you block the way back?”

Swallowing, Al touched the floor. More concrete. And if she was asking, it had to be safe to transmute, right?

His hesitation cost him his chance to make a clean job of it. The door crumpled inwards and Cassie erupted into the tunnel, auto-mail arms pushing at every available surface to propel her onward. She'd be on them in seconds and even if he got a barrier up, she'd just blast through it.

He had to do something else. Fast.

Cassie saw him bring his hands together. She sneered and twisted the arrays in her hands, making the extra limbs go even faster.

Al thrust his palms against the ground, feeling the familiar jolt of energy pass through them. He imagined Cassie would be expecting a tide of uprooted floor and thought he saw her eyes widen when instead a coiling line sprang from floor to roof. Perhaps she realised, at the last second, that she was seeing wisps of smoke beginning to twist.

Then the cyclone hit her full in the face and she cartwheeling backwards, all her arms and legs flailing helplessly.

It was a trick he hadn't tried since the fight in Liore, when he'd sent scores of metal men spiralling into the sky. He honestly hadn't been sure he'd be able to do it again, not without the carefully balanced arrays he'd stitched into his gloves. Yet here he was, doing it barehanded – so to speak – and it was just as effective.

As soon as he was sure Cassie had been blown out of the tunnel, he let the twister dissipate and sent the floor slamming upwards right the way to the door. He turned to find the girl staring down at him. Her lips parted, words forming but not coming out.

Then she shook herself and opened the hatch. “Come on. Before they can guard the exits.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


A ladder got Ed to another gantry, deeper into the smoke, and no nearer whoever was working the lifts. Either they were clearing out before he got to them or the controls were on another level. Maybe down with those people he'd glimpsed? That had to be the floor for this place so he just needed another ladder or some stairs or . . .

He was considering whether he could make the jump safely when the next lift along started up and he got another good look at the business end of some rocket engines. A good  _ long _ look because this time, the lift came to a stop exactly level with where he was standing.

Which didn't make a whole lot of sense.

If they were trying to get the things out ahead of the fire, stopping the lift halfway to the surface was dumb. If they'd seen sense and given up, why stop it so precisely?

Closer examination revealed the guard rail next to him was hinged, creating a gate. If he undid the bolt and swung it open, it'd be just a short step to the platform. Unlike the big aircraft Alfons designed for Eckhart, this plane didn't have a ramp at the back but peering under the wing, Ed could see . . . yep. A door open on the side. This was all in aid of loading the thing up.

Raising the obvious question of  _ loading it up with what? _

He didn't need a mystery right now. The mask wasn't going to keep him safe for much longer and he was already cooking inside his coat. He didn't have time to waste on whatever the hell –

That was when he heard steady, even, metallic footsteps from up ahead. Like a bunch of guys in hobnail boots had decided to go for a lazy afternoon stroll through the  _ burning factory _ . Because why wouldn't the universe go whole-hog into  _ fucking weird _ when he really needed it to stick to the straightforward 'move people from fire A to safety B' scenario?

Squinting, he made out a lumbering shadow, big and bulky. It looked too huge for the gantry, though that was probably an illusion caused by –

Without warning, something like a hurricane tore through the chamber, buffeting him hard against the rail. As the smoke was torn aside, he got a clear line of sight on the people coming towards him.

They were wearing armour, which explained the noise and bulk. But it wasn't just any armour. Oh no. It was  _ Al's armour _ . The armour that been his body for half a decade. The exact same design, with all the details burnt into Ed's memory by hundreds of sleepless nights and long, guilt-ridden journeys, right down to the whisker-like lines on the visor.

The only difference was that these suits were not antiques. They were brand new. Gleaming. A whole parade of foundry-fresh steel giants, marching in lock-step, helmets held high.

Each with points of icy white light glowing behind the eyeholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- You may remember Huskisson as That Jerk With The Uranium Bomb at the start of 'Conquerer of Shambala', last seen in this series dying in agony on an English moor waaaaay back in 'The Death of Truth'. Don't worry if you don't, though. He was very forgettable.  
> \- I've been tweaking and editing a lot of this because while I think the images I had for this chapter are solid, the descriptions kept coming out clunky. Oh for an animation budget!  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Gridlock' by The Pogues.


	24. Exeunt, Every Which Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late posting to anyone who expected this earlier today (I don't think anyone's following this that closely, but just case) - as this is the last full chapter before I go on hiatus, I wanted to give it a thorough edit. And get the word count down, because ye gods is this thing going to be long enough without me overwriting.

Winry had never seen a major steam main explode before. Rush Valley was an electric-first town and while she'd heard of it happening in Central, that was always after the fact, once all the debris and swerved cars had long-since been cleared away.

Now that she got to witness the after-effects in person . . . the only way she could think to describe it was as if a cloud had dropped out of the sky and eaten an entire city block.

Elbowing through the crowd of onlookers, she caught snatches of conversation about red lightning and shots fired, about a fight of some kind. Not enough to tell her what was going on, but enough to confirm this was exactly the kind of thing Ed would be involved in.

So. Now what? It felt ridiculous to hang around and just kind of hope Ed would come barrelling out into the open at some point. For one thing, even if he really was in there, there was no guarantee he'd come towards her and for another, what would happen if she distracted him in the middle of a fight? And was it even safe to be this close? If another main went up –

She took a hurried step backwards and trod on the toes of the man behind her. A couple of profuse apologies and aborted attempts to retreat later, she wound up pushed to the edge of the street, steadying herself some railings. She briefly considered the enormous wall to her right. No damage to that, as far as she could see, though who knew what it was like further along.

Damn, this was annoying. Why couldn't it have been something she could see through?

The crowd stirred and went quiet as noises came from the cloud: a few rapid clinks and a louder crash. A shout. Then a strangle crackling hiss –

Winry scooted back some more as blue flashes lit up the steam. Only the edge of the transmutation reached outside the fog, but that was enough to rip the road nearly a metre into the air. People screamed, a few losing their footing. The wave passed across the street, scattering pieces of concrete in all directions. Left to right, which meant the alchemist had to be . . .

She leaned over the railing, peering into the pipe-filled ditch at the base of the wall just in time to see Noah stumble out of the steam.

There was a limp figure lolling in her arms and the mess of golden hair spilling over her shoulder made Winry's chest tighten. But it of course it wasn't Ed. Edward March was skinnier, taller, unmarked by old injury – though given how he looked, right now he was marked by a whole lot of new ones.

Winry weighed her options, checked no one was looking, and swung herself under the railing.

“What's going on?” she asked as she landed on the pipes. It was maybe a couple of metres down, far enough no one would be able to see them without standing where she'd been. 

“A woman,” Noah said, breathless, “Chasing us. Edward was fighting her – she's one of the people who found him. Before I mean. He performed a transmutation. A deconstruction, I mean. I think it burned up whatever red stones were left inside him.”

“I'm guessing that's bad.” Winry took one of Edward's arms, hoisting him up a bit more. He was lighter than she expected given how strong he was. Usually was.

Without needing to be told, she followed Noah's lead in hurrying as fast as they could away from the steam cloud.

“I don't know how bad it is. I know a homunculus loses the power to regenerate without red stones but . . . what that means for him . . .”

Winry nodded. It wasn't as if Edward was a piece of machinery they could take apart.  None of them had any real idea of the upper limit for what he could survive or whether it differed from other homunculi. Heck, Winry wasn't clear on how a regular homunculus worked and wanted to know about as much as she wanted to see Edward rip his own stomach open again.

Which was distracting enough a memory she didn't notice the extra footsteps until Noah abruptly dropped her half of Edward. Grunting in surprise, Winry was about to ask what-the-hell when she realised that though the bomp-bomp of their feet against the pipes had stopped, she could still hear a much faster version of the same noise.

Coming from behind them.

Two things happened more or less simultaneously. A woman in a ripped-up grey coat hurtled out of the steam cloud, a long knife gleaming in her hand. And Noah clapped, skirts whirling around her as she pressed her hands to the pipes.

The jet of scalding vapour missed the women by a hand-span. She sprang out of its way and for a few seconds was actually running  _ along the side of the ditch _ , like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do and OH CRAP –

Noah ducked under the knife. Winry was not as fortunate when it came to the woman's elbow. The impact bowled her over and Edward came down with her. The knife sang above them. Noah's arms looped around the arm holding it, levering the woman into a throw –

How was it even possible for a human being to land on their feet after that? How was that a thing someone could do?

Another clap from Noah, so maybe it wouldn't matter –

Something bright flashed from the knife-woman's hand and Noah cried out, clutching her arm. Blood dripped through her fingers.

Winry tried to get up, to lever Edward off her, but her limbs wouldn't do what they were told. She could only watch as the knife rushed towards her –

“Hey!” someone called from street-level, right overhead, “What the 'ell – ?!”

The knife jerked aside, just slightly. The woman's expression, fiercely determined throughout everything so far, turned sour. As if the interruption was a personal insult.

The weight of Edward's body lifted away.

However hard the woman had hit earlier, he returned the blow a hundred-fold. She went flying, knocked clean the way back into the steam cloud. The clang of her landing mingled with swearing from the audience above them, though Winry barely noticed either.

She was too busy staring at Edward. His head snapped around when she scrambled to her feet. A cat's eyes stared from that too-familiar face, bright with animal intensity. Winry's mouth went dry.

“We should get out of here.” Noah still clutched her arm, not quite touching the flower-shaped blade sticking out of her bicep.

Edward's pupils contracted then widened back to normal. He blinked. “Y-yes. But your –”

“No time. Come on.” She started along the ditch, wincing with every step.

“No, don't be silly.” Fighting off the hare-in-the-headlights feeling, Winry pulled Noah to a stop and took out the handkerchief that she always told herself she  _ didn't _ carry around solely for this kind of situation. She set about removing the flower-blade and binding up the wound, horribly aware of the seconds ticking by, determined to do the job properly.

Edward glowered at the still-billowing steam, then at the people gathering by the railings. Most of them recoiled. Someone shouted for the police, for soldiers.

Winry tied off the handkerchief and squeezed Noah's hand. “OK,” she said, failing miserably to keep her voice from wavering, “ _ Now _ we can run for our lives.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Wolff spent the minutes after Major Elric headed into the factory having a circular conversation with the sergeant in charge of the security detail. He said he was there to escort her to safety, which they both knew was more about protecting company secrets than protecting her. She told him that as a fully trained alchemist she could help combat the fire before anyone got hurt. He pointed out there were dangerous materials inside that could go up at any moment. She explained she could neutralise them so they didn't. He insisted he couldn't let her any closer. And around they went.

On a professional level, she appreciated his position and had she been in it, she was sure she'd have been just as belligerently obstructive. It was irritating to be on the receiving end without the psychological advantage of being in uniform. The State Alchemist pocket-watch simply did not have the same impact when you were trying to pull rank. She gave it her best shot anyway, which achieved very little. Major or not, she still wasn't cleared to be there.

The flood of workers dried to a trickle while they argued. A few stragglers dodged around a pair of black-painted fire trucks that had just pulled up. Not a great response time, Wolff thought, hoping their arrival would nonetheless distract the sergeant enough to give her the upper hand.

His face hardened further, if such a thing was possible. “Ma'am, I'm going to have to insist you come with me now.”

Worth a shot.

She was just resigning herself to being no use to anyone when the strangest vehicle she'd ever seen came trundling out of the second building in the row. It was as if someone had taken a dart, magnified it a couple of thousand times, mounted the result on three bicycle wheels and stuck wings to the sides. Was it supposed to be some kind of extravagant kite? A giant firework?

The sergeant watched the machine's progress with the kind of horror usually reserved for unattended live grenades.

Wolff schooled her own expression into polite interest. “I'm not cleared to be seeing this, am I?”

His response was lost in a full-throated roar from dart-thing. This was followed in short order by a gout of flame from several big nozzles at the back and the whole assembly accelerating rapidly down the tarmac. Scattering hapless workers from its path, it began to lift steadily off the ground. A few seconds and it was properly airborne, drawing up its wheels like a bird tucking in its talons.

Wolff took her hands from over her ears. By some miracle, no one appeared to have been injured, the fire-trucks having escaped a collision by the skin of their tires. “Is this part of your normal evacuation drill?” she asked the sergeant.

He went red all the way to the top of his scalp. “No ma'am.”

“Then I certainly hope you've got a way of getting that thing down again.”

“Wheeler!” the sergeant snapped, “escort the Major to the admin block. The rest of you, with me!”

The giant firework was a dot in the sky. Wolff watched it dwindle as the soldiers rushed around her, trying to guess at the speeds involved. How much fuel did you have to burn to keep it in the air? Normal gunpowder or gasoline surely wouldn't do. You'd need something more concentrated, that could produce greater energy at lower volumes –

Ah.

Wheeler – a fresh-faced private with the air of someone used to copping thankless tasks – cleared his throat. “Um, ma'am . . . ?”

“One moment.” Putting that level of authority into her voice definitely wouldn't have worked on an obstinate old cus like the sergeant but this boy was raw enough to freeze when an officer spoke. Making the most of the time it bought her, Wolff examined the front of the building from which the flying machine had emerged. “I didn't see any sign of that thing before. Where did it come from?”

“Must have come up the machine lift,” Wheeler said, mouth running faster than his brain could engage. He paled. “I mean, ma'am, if you'll just follow –”

“So there's underground storage? Or is that where the actual works are?”

“Uh –”

“Wheeler!” barked the sergeant from just inside the gaping doorway, “Move!”

“Ma'am, please?”

She relented, deciding she'd pushed things as far as she could, and gestured for the kid to lead the way.

He barely managed two steps before the shouting started. Another flying machine was coming out of the next building along – and another from the one after that. They moved inexorably into the open, completely heedless of the soldiers' scrambling. The furthest one lit up and rocketed away. The nearer one . . . didn't, continuing instead to roll sedately along on its wheels. Naturally that became the focus of everyone's attention. The sergeant screamed at his men not to open fire, at the factory workers to do something

A hatch in the side of the vehicle burst open, a man wind-milling in the opening. His ponytail whipped about as he frantically jammed himself there before he could fall. Then he was gone, hurling himself back inside with a yell.

Well, they did say the Fullmetal Alchemist had a talent for getting into trouble.

Wolff began to run. She couldn't claim to be reacting without thinking. The consequences of her actions did occur to her, the implications of jumping into the fray did cross her mind, and she did realise that doing so most likely contravened both proper comportment of a Military officer around secret material and Major Elric's intentions in splitting them up.

But it looked like he needed help and she didn't expect anyone else was going to volunteer.

At a flat out sprint, she made it to the hatch and managed to get a hold of the edge. The flying machine swerved away as she did so, nearly pulling her over. Putting on a last burst of speed, she kept her footing and her grip, and hauled herself inside.

The cabin was cramped, not quite tall enough to stand in, the curved walls hung with equipment webbing. A glass canopy at the front end shed daylight on Elric grappling with a taller, black-haired man between a pair of reinforced chairs, neither quite able to dislodge the other.

Wolff seized Elric's assailant around the neck and he grunted in surprise as she dragged him backwards. His flailing boot-heel knocked against a steering wheel, pitching the vehicle into another swerve. Elric fell against a bank of controls while the other man fought viciously against Wolff's choke-hold, throwing them this way and that. She felt her foot tangle in the webbing, jerking her to a stop. The man squirmed out of her grip and –

Her other foot connected squarely with his arse, propelling him across the cabin and all the way through the open hatch.

To his credit, he didn't waste time crying out, instead making a desperate grab for the door. He would have made it too, if the flying machine hadn't chosen that precise instant to leap forward.

The man vanished, lost behind them, and the terrible force of the acceleration threw the hatch shut. If she hadn't already had a foot and hand in the webbing, Wolff would have been slammed into the rear wall. As it was, it took all her strength to hold on.

Swearing, Elric twisted into one of the seats and grabbed the steering column. Outside the canopy, the world became a rush of black and green and blue. The flying machine shook with the howling of its engines, going faster and faster. Wolff braced herself, mind empty of everything except that this was an absurd way to die.

Major Elric settled the wheel between his hands and pulled it slowly towards him. Wolff's stomach lurched. The floor of the cabin tilted up. She felt a shift, the rumble of the ground beneath them giving way to a startling absence.

And then there was nothing in front of them but the sky.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It was unfair to say Sheska knew nothing about romance. Like pretty much every subject under the sun, she had a working knowledge of the basic concepts and could recall a great volume of words written about it. Besides, despite what everyone thought, she wasn't a total shut-in. She'd seen people. Occasionally. When work and looking after her mother permitted it. Which mostly they didn't because when Colonel Fiat was your boss, you had to jealously guard your free time lest it get sacrificed in the name of justice, and persuading Mr Jacek to look in on Mom was always an exercise in frustration and bribery.

Speaking of which, she needed to ask the hotelier where she could buy the bottle of whiskey she'd promised to bring back –

Anyway, the point was, it was not knowledge she lacked but experience. For all the novels and etiquette diaries and torrid memoirs she consumed and for all the stuttering attempts she'd made to seek out what they described, the reality remained elusive. She'd simply not had that many opportunities to put the things she'd read into practice.

Which meant she didn't really know what to do about the young man who'd sat down across the table from her and started flirting like there was no tomorrow.

She wasn't quite sure where he'd come from. Her chair faced the door to the front hall and he certainly hadn't entered that way. There was another door on the far side of the room, so maybe through there? The waiter didn't seem bothered by his presence, though she suspected the opinion of a surly teenager more interested in listening to the radio than serving breakfast might not be especially dependable.

Sheska had been trying to listen to the radio as well, over the clatter of the other diners. There'd been a news flash about the explosion and she wanted to keep an ear out for more information.

Then this guy had sat down, asking if she minded and – well –

She'd said it was OK more or less out of confusion. And now there he was. Eating eggs and bacon and every so often paying her the most ridiculous compliments.

It didn't help that he was good-looking. Pale, but very . . . well-defined. What she could see of him was, anyway. Which was a lot because he didn't have anything on beneath his loose, wide-collared shirt. And she kept getting mesmerised by the way the looping patterns stitched into the yellow fabric shifted whenever he moved.

Or perhaps that was just how desperately she was trying not to stare anywhere inappropriate.

His face was angular and soft at the same time, the details just sort of . . .  _ flowing _ nicely. His ears stuck out a bit, but noticing that almost felt like quibbling when the way his fringe fell gave Sheska the irresistible urge to reach over and brush it aside. His hair, done up in a ponytail, was long and black and looked like it would be so silky to the touch –

“This is delicious! I simply cannot believe there are not people lining up to eat such fine food in such excellent company!” He smiled at her. He'd been doing that a lot. It made his eyes crinkle almost all the way shut.

“Oh . . . err . . . I mean, I'm not . . . err . . .” Sheska stuffed a piece of toast in her mouth. Things would have been so much easier if he'd been leering or obviously winding her up. She knew how to deal with that. But he seemed so . . . sincere. Like sharing a table with her had made his day.

“Well I say it's a travesty that you were eating alone. No one should ever have to. It's quite uncivilised. How can a meal be appreciated if you've no one to express your gratitude for it to?”

“I . . . well I guess you can always complement the cook? Unless you are the cook. In which case you'd be complementing yourself . . .”

“Never eat a meal you've cooked yourself if you can possibly avoid it. The creation of the meal robs you of the enjoyment. Something about the smells of the process, I think.”

“That's true, actually. There was a doctor who studied it . . . um . . .” She broke off, distracted by the start of a new tune on the radio that sounded like a news jingle.

“So Amestrians really do study everything, if you have busy scientists looking into something so trivial! Or maybe it's not trivial. Isn't enjoyment the most important part of our lives?”

The way he said that –

Sheska grabbed at something else as if her life depended on it. “S-so . . . where are you from then? If you're not, err, from Amestris?”

Startlement painted itself across his face. “I haven't introduced myself!” he exclaimed, letting go his cutlery. He dropped his head in a quick bob. “I am Ling Yao. Well, properly it's Yao Ling, but not the way you'd say it. I am of Xing. Across the eastern sands?”

She knew where Xing was. Atlases weren't really to her taste – too light on words – but she'd read every encyclopedia going. “You mean you crossed all the way over the desert? That's – o-oh. I mean, I'm Sheska. It's nice to meet you.”

“Delighted! Absolutely delighted!” He beamed. “And you know, it's more common than you'd think. Crossing the desert. There are oases and suchlike. There used to be a great kingdom there, before the sand closed in. The remains still shelter travellers. Though I think it would be easier if someone just built a train track. Maybe the Ishbalans would like to. Do you know how they feel about trains? I don't think it was alchemists who invented them, so –”

“Winry!” Sheska shot to her feet, all other considerations driven away by the sight of her friend in the doorway. More specifically, by the sight of her friend in the doorway with messed-up hair, torn-up clothes and dirt smeared across her face.

The clock on the wall said it had been nearly an hour since Winry headed out –  _ really, that long? _ – which was plenty of time for all kinds of disastrous things that might have left her looking like that.

“Are you OK?!”

Winry quickly pulled Sheska into the hall. “Well, I kind of ran into –”

“O-oh!”

Noah stood behind Winry, just as dust-covered and with a bloody bandage around her left arm. She gave Sheska a wan smile then went back to looking concernedly at the ragged figure slumped against the wall beside her. It was Edward – the other Edward – who looked even more unwell than usual. Or – actually, Sheska didn't know what was normal for him since they'd barely interacted at all outside of one meeting while he was in the hospital. It'd seemed best to keep away, just in case the Colonel –

Edward really didn't look good at all. Properly dead on his feet and likely to come off them at any moment. The hotelier was behind her desk, watching them all with concern, which made Sheska drop her voice into an urgent whisper. “What  _ happened _ ?”

“We just got chased through the city's service tunnels by some maniac with a knife.” Winry hissed back, “Or . . . well . . . I think we lost her before we got very far into them but then we got lost trying to find a way back here. Noah got hurt and Edward is . . . has Ed come back yet?”

“No. At least, I don't think so. Excuse me?” Sheska waved to the hotelier. “Our friend – M-mr Hiedrich, he hasn't . . . ?”

The woman shook her head. “No, I'm afraid he's still out. Do you need me to call an ambulance?” she added, glancing at Edward.

“Hello?” said Ling Yao, sticking his head out of the dining room, “Miss Sheska? Is everything all right? You took off so suddenly.”

“Oh, no, it's nothing to worry about . . . uh . . .” Halfway through, it occurred to Sheska this dismissal would be a lot more convincing if not for the nearly-unconscious half-homunculus and obviously-injured alchemist in plain view. “Well, maybe it is b-but –”

Ling gave her a hopeful look. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Who are you?” Winry asked, brow furrowing.

“Oh, this is Ling – we were having breakfast, uh, together.”

“Excuse me, sir?” The hotelier was frowning too. “I don't think I saw you come in?”

And that was when Edward began to growl.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he stood a little straighter, swaying slightly Spit flecked his chin, his lips drawing back into a snarl to match the noise coming from his throat. His eyes locked on to Ling like a wolf sighting prey.

That was the simile that leaped to Sheska's mind anyway, right before Ling gently shoved her to one side so that she wasn't sent flying when Edward launched himself across the hall and body-tackled the man from Xing.

“Get him off me!” Ling yelled as they crashed to the dining room floor, throwing up his arms to protect his face. Edward clawed at them in jerky, frenzied motions then drew back his fist.

Winry caught his wrist. “Hey! Stop! What the hell are you . . . doing . . .”

Sheska, on Edward's other side, couldn't see what made her trail off but she  _ did _ see Ling look down and grimace. “Ah,” he sighed, all trace of panic vanishing, “That's annoying.”

What happened next was like watching a mousetrap go off. One moment, Ling was pinned, by all appearances helpless. The next, he was back on his feet and looking down at Edward and Winry where they sprawled on the carpet.

Edward immediately leapt for Ling's throat again. But Ling wasn't there any more. Instead he was over by the sideboard, snatching up a hotplate. Then he snapped back to where he'd been and brought it down on Edward's head.

“At your best, you were never a match for me,” he said as Edward crumpled, “And clearly you're nowhere near that right now.”

Tossing the hotplate aside, he smiled at Sheska. It was not remotely like the smiles he'd been giving her earlier. This time his eyes stayed wide open, the light catching in lilac irises, and his mouth opened to show off teeth like a razors. He touched his right side, brushing the pale flesh that had been uncovered when Edward's attack tore open the clasps on his shirt. When he took his hand away, Sheska saw what Winry must have seen.

A blood-red ouroboros tattoo at the very tip of his ribcage.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself again,” Ling said, in the same cheerful tone he'd praised her and his breakfast, “Just to clear up any confusion.” He flung his arms wide. “I am Ling Yao, last true heir to the throne of Xing, master of the Ash Guard, and future Emperor-Eternal. And while I wasn't expecting all four of you to be here, I welcome the chance to gather you up in one go.”

He looked from Sheska to Winry, to Noah standing in the dining room doorway, to Edward. and to all the hotel residents staring in shock from their tables. His hands fell loosely to his side and he somehow managed to grin even wider. “Any questions?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- It's always nice getting to one of the scenes I've had in mind since first planning the fic.  
> \- Ling's ouroboros is over his liver, specifically. Like with most of the homunculi, this is intended to be significant. I considered using the bandages (?) he has when he first shows up as a way of hiding the tattoo in this scene, but adding some clasps to the shirt made slightly more sense.  
> \- This chapter's song is 'Outrage' by Capital Lights.


	25. Intermission: The Fabled Lost Civilisation In The East

_They say that on the day the Jewel of Xing died, the evening sky lit red with heavenly fury. They say that those piteous few who escaped beyond the wall saw shimmering fire sweep across the city, consuming all in their path with glittering ravenousness._

_They say that none who did not flee on the instant escaped the cataclysm and that, when the searing light finally relented, no sound could be heard. That no man or child or animal remained to give voice to the horror that had been visited upon them._

_And so it was the throne of that most glorious of Empires met its end in ringing silence._

  
  


* * *

  
  


His footsteps filled the palace with thunder, every one clamouring to him of the absence of any other noise. In all his life, for as long as he could remember, there had never been such quiet in these halls. Gone was the soft patter of unseen servants, the clink of armour as guards shifted to attention, the firm stride of bodyguards at his back. No birds sang in the garden, no cry echoed up from the lower city, and not a single paper rustled in the chambers of government.

Emptiness greeted him wherever he went. He flew through the throne-rooms and the offices of his ministers, through the quarters of those who stood in his favour and the great libraries that were the envy of the world. In the rooms of his wives he found game-pieces scattered as if dropped halfway to the board. In the beds of his children, he found nothing but rumpled sheets.

On and on he ran, calling out until his voice cracked and he could no longer bear to hear his cries echo back from uncaring walls. Somewhere along the way, he lost one of his sandals and barely noticed until imbalance twisted his ankle and he had to catch at the wall.

A tray lay at his feet, so close to the side of the passage he would have gone right past had he not stopped so abruptly. The cups and plates that it had carried were a constellation of fragments across the matting. On any other day, such carelessness would have brought fearful punishment upon the one responsible. Had they been before him in that moment, he would have embraced them as a brother and showered them with riches for as long as they lived.

Their absence was another wound, another twist in his heart. He fled onwards, afraid if he lingered in any one place, he might miss someone, some survivor, hiding elsewhere.

At last, raw and stumbling, he ran into the lower gardens, to the wall at the end of the path. From this overlook, gasping down air heavy with blossom and the perfume of flowers, the last Emperor of Xing beheld the empty city.

All was deathly quiet. He strained his ears, praying for the slightest sound. There was only the faint play of the wind and the creak of old wood as the trees shifted. Nothing else. No screams. No cries. No one raising the alarm or shrieking in terror. Nothing at all.

The Emperor could not guess how long he stood in the gathering dusk, searching vainly for any sign of life amongst the buildings below. All he knew was that when, finally, he heard the tread of feet coming towards him, it brought no relief. For he recognised the steady, even pace and where once it might have been comforting, now the approach of the Sage of the West only filled him with bottomless dread.

The alchemist's face was serene and untroubled as ever, lit faintly by the crystal in his hand. It was a monstrous thing, burning the Emperor's eyes when he dared look upon its shifting, liquid surface. He could not imagine touching it, let alone holding it so calmly.

“You seem troubled, Majesty.” Polite interest and deference, even now. The master philosopher cocked his head to one side. “Surely you knew there would be a cost to what we were doing.”

“A . . .  _ cost _ ?” The bitterness of the word was almost too great to be given voice. The Emperor trembled, with fear or rage or some wild combination of both. “This – what have you done to my people?!”

The alchemist sighed. Like a teacher, disappointed a lesson had not penetrated their pupil's understanding. “Did you imagine life eternal could be born without sacrifice? You are a ruler of men, surely you understand that power never comes lightly.”

“B-but . . . all . . .  _ all of them _ ? How can – what would you have me rule now? A city of empty graves?! You never said – !”

“There are always more people. An entire empire of them for you to rule for as long as you like.”

Something broke inside the Emperor. The last vestiges of seeing this man  as a friend. As someone who understood the burden of his station. As a means of assuaging the doubts and fears that he could never admit to feeling. They all scattered, leaving him with nothing but the certainty he faced a devil.

He snatched the dagger from his belt and threw himself upon the alchemist. It did no good. The knife was dispelled in a red flash and when he tried to strangle the man with his bare hands, the light came again to sear his skin and force him to the ground.

The alchemist knelt too, pity in his golden eyes. “I have no wish to fight you. We embarked on this road together. Surely you can take some satisfaction in the achievement?”

The Emperor clutched burnt fingers to his throat. “My sons . . . my ministers . . . you . . . you must return them to me! Them, at least – surely –”

“They are transformed,” the alchemist said with a sad shake of his head, “In their way, they too shall be spared the dissolution of flesh. And even so, it is the true law of alchemy that nothing can be gained without loss. The more we seek, the more we must give up. That is why we must have the courage of our desires. It is the only way we can achieve that for which we reach.”

Behind him, a swirl of blue silk heralded his mistress. She stood a little way back, hands folded within her sleeves. The deference that had marked her since their arrival in the city was gone, replaced with an insolent, penetrating stare. She called to the alchemist, a few words in their rough tongue. He replied in kind, not moving his gaze from the Emperor.

Taking the stone in both hands, he  _ pulled _ and it came apart as easily as well-cooked meat, the pieces settling into two fist-sized lumps. One the alchemist clasped to his chest. The other, he held out to the Emperor. “I promised you we would share immortality.”

The Emperor's mind seemed to shake in time to the flickering light within the offered rock. He found he could no more reach to take it than he could grow wings and fly out of this nightmare. When it was clear no force on earth would make him accept the gift, the alchemist laid it upon the grass between them.

Then he stood, still looking sad, and bowed. “I bid you well, Majesty, and hope that one day we can meet again as friends.”

The woman caught his arm as he turned back to the palace, speaking insistently, eyes darting to the half of the crystal he had abandoned. His reply was brief and final, and he lifted a hand to guide her away. Their steps faded quickly, consumed by the all-encompassing silence.

And the Emperor of Xing was left alone, staring through his tears into the fire at the heart of the philosopher's stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- These events have been in my mind for years, as I tried to parse Dante's implication that Hohenheim is responsible for the fables about a city or country in the east disappearing in a single night. Obviously this is a version of the destruction of Xerxes from the manga, yet 2003!Hohenheim is clearly analogous to the real-world alchemist Theophrastus von Hohenheim (aka Paracelsus), rather than a refugee from a lost civilisation. It wouldn't be impossible to square these two things, and certainly the timing is roughly the same if we assume that Paracelsus' dates match Hohenheim's. However there is actually a precise equivalent to Xerxes in 2003-adjacent material, that being Lebis from the second video game, Curse of the Crimson Elixir, which was destroyed by a king seeking the Stone in order to bring back his dead queen. This happened much further back than Hohenheim's original lifetime, so if one chooses to take Lebis as the inspiration for the story Ed mentions in the series – as I do for relatively arbitrary reasons of 'let's fit this all together' – what on earth is Dante talking about? Then one remembers that the Xingese characters are notably absent from FMA!2003 and, well . . .  
> \- On reflection, I'm not quite sure why I find the image of the Philosopher's Stone transmutation atomising people far more horrific than the manga version where a lifeless body is left behind. I think it's some combination of the finality (the 2003 version is definitely *not* reversible) and how clinical it is.  
> \- I'm going to break off the story here for a while, since I need to get the events for the next part in order and, you know, write them (anddealwithotherdistractingstoryideas). It does occur to me that this would make a perfectly satisfactory end-point for this entry and I could continue the story in a fresh new fic, but 1) I'm not sure the themes would quite work that way and 2) I'm committed to this being the last entry in the series so . . . I guess this is going to be a monster-fic.  
> \- Thanks to everyone who's read this far – hopefully see you again in the new year!


End file.
